Emotional Blackmail
by Read The Subtext
Summary: Bridget Westfall sees too much and knows too much, and Ferguson's determined to get rid of her at any cost. She has the perfect ammunition at her disposal - but for once, she may have underestimated her opponent. Will Franky end up a pawn in another one of The Freak's twisted mind games? And can Fridget's already fraught relationship survive the unveiling of that tape?
1. Chapter 1

Pressing people's buttons used to be Franky's favourite pastime, but she isn't at the top of the pecking order anymore and stirring up trouble isn't as much fun as it used to be. Booms is still blanking her, Liz is convinced she's trying to corrupt her precious fucking daughter, and Kim wouldn't piss on her if she was on fire. Franky should have known her former lover would go all Fatal Attraction on her ass once she broke things off, but she never suspected Kim would get herself thrown back in here just for the sake of another shag. Franky knows she's good, but shit, she didn't think she was _that_ good. She's almost tempted to fuck Kim one last time, just to escape her unrelenting glare and maybe work off some pent-up frustration - at least that way she can stop sleeping with one eye open - but instead she's saving herself for a woman she can probably never have, like some kind of lovesick teenager.

She's trying her damnedest not to get too hung up on Bridget, because God knows she's been burned enough times before, but she's sick of going through the motions and scratching an itch that never really goes away. She isn't craving sex, she's craving a connection – someone she can talk to without compromising her intelligence, someone she can be honest with without fearing the repercussions. Erica came close, but in the end she screwed her over like every fucker else. That kiss wasn't supposed to taste like a bitter-sweet victory, it wasn't supposed to feel like a struggle, but Erica was never going to willingly relinquish her power. In the end, she was just some bi-curious closet case who wanted to take a walk on the wild side, and now she's obviously too busy trying to re-build her high-flying career to give Franky a second thought. All that anticipation and no pay off, but Franky's learnt to roll with the punches. Erica was just another lesson in why it doesn't pay to get too invested in anyone, but that doesn't stop some defective part of her brain from hoping against hope. She tells herself that Bridget's different, that she isn't imagining the spark of affection in her eyes or the way her gaze always lingers for a little too long, that she isn't misjudging the situation and mistaking professional courtesy for genuine concern, but she knows it'll all go to hell in a hand basket either way. It always does.

Their hour-long sessions might feel like a fleeting life-line for now, but they aren't enough to sustain Franky once she's back in the snake pit. She's bored shitless and the loneliness is starting to eat away at her. She sees Kim and Booms laughing together in the yard (probably at her expense); Liz and Jess cooing over Doreen's baby bump, and everyone falling over themselves to kiss Queen Bea's ass, and she realises the lifelong friends she thought she'd made in this place are just as fucking fickle as everyone else. She can't really blame Booms for ditching her, though. When it came to the crunch she took the coward's way out, so maybe Boomer's right – maybe she didn't deserve her friendship in the first place. Self-preservation is the only way she knows how to survive in this place, but it's a poor fucking excuse.

Sophie's her only ally now, but she's just a confused kid who doesn't know her ass from her elbow. Teaching her the ropes gives Franky something halfway noble to do, even if she occasionally gets side tracked with showing her a good time, and she tries not to let Liz's disapproval hurt too much. Apparently Franky isn't the kind of woman parents want their kids to hang out with, even if their only other role model is a self-pitying alkie.

Still, with her parole hearing looming, Franky's starting to realise the importance of flying under the radar. She camps out in the library most of the time, devouring legal textbooks like they're her salvation, as though reading case law will magically help her withstand the cross-examination she's bound to be subjected to by the parole board. She spends half her time thinking about Bridget, and half her time desperately trying not to.

When Ferguson summons her to her office one dismal Tuesday afternoon, Franky gets that familiar feeling of trepidation. She wants nothing more than to see the twisted bitch go down, but when faced with that stony mask and maddening smirk, it's hard not to wonder if Bea's bitten off more than she can chew, especially after what happened with Jodie.

"Doyle, you seem to have been keeping a remarkably... low profile... lately."

Franky hates the way Ferguson drags out her words in that condescending tone, but she manages to curl her lips into a cocky smile regardless.

"Well, you know me, Governor. Butter wouldn't melt."

The Freak's eyebrows raise slightly, showcasing her scepticism.

"On the contrary, I get the impression that you're simply biding your time until the parole board comes to town."

 _No shit, Sherlock._

"Nah, I've turned over a new leaf," Franky informs her, tongue firmly in cheek. "No more sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll. Guides' honour."

"Well, that's good, Doyle, because I would hate for anything to jeopardise your chances of release."

"Yeah, you're really rooting for me, aren't cha? I can tell."

Franky knows when she's being threatened, and her eyes narrow slightly as she tries to figure out what angle Ferguson's trying to play this time.

"Well, that's up to you," Ferguson reasons, doing a piss-poor imitation of geniality. "I would, of course, be happy to speak in your favour - "

"Look, save me the 'you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours' bullshit, OK? You hung me out to dry, Ferguson," Franky reminds her, "So you're gonna have to find someone else to do your dirty work from now on." Franky can't resist making one final jab, and her eyes glint with malice as she remarks, "Looks like Jodie didn't work out too well for you, huh?"

For a second, there's an imperceptible shift in Ferguson's steely demeanour, and her stoic facade gives way to barely-suppressed fury. Franky watches as the Governor swallows, rapidly regaining her composure.

"Yes, well, it's clear that Miss Spiterri had some serious mental health issues that I didn't foresee. Isolation obviously didn't agree with her."

Franky can barely contain her snort of disbelief. "Yeah, right. Because we all know it was the slot that sent her stir crazy."

"What I'm more concerned about is that our esteemed psychologist didn't seem to pick up on the warning signs," Ferguson laments, and at the mention of Bridget, Franky folds her arms defensively.

"Well, neither did I, and Jodes and I were... pretty tight, if you know what I mean."

Franky tries to subvert the conversation with a lascivious smile that reveals exactly how up close and personal she and Jodie used to get, but Ferguson's having none of it.

"Then you must be as outraged as I am that Miss Westfall failed her with such...catastrophic consequences."

"Are you for real?" Franky asks incredulously. "I heard you sneak into her cell, Ferguson. I know you weren't tucking her in and reading her a bedtime story. There was nothing wrong with that poor kid until you started screwing with her head."

Ferguson doesn't even react to her words, she just carries on as if Franky has been listening attentively the whole time.

"Miss Westfall has a duty of care to the women she treats, but I'm becoming increasingly concerned about her capabilities." Ferguson lets out a derisive sound, which sounds almost like a guffaw. "She was actually naïve enough to believe Smith's cock and bull story about being attacked in the yard, and I won't have her sending my staff on wild goose chases, checking CCTV footage for evidence they're never going to find."

"So you don't think it's a little too convenient, that Bea flips her shit right before Jodie's hearing?" Franky demands, meeting Ferguson's unflinching gaze with her characteristic defiance.

"I'm not sure if I like what you're insinuating, Doyle."

Franky opens her mouth to argue back, but then thinks better of it, knowing that she's treading a fine line that she can't afford to cross.

"Whatever." She exhales audibly, holding up her hands in an unspoken question. "So are you gonna tell me what you dragged me in here for, or what?"

"Miss Westfall is a liability. She's more concerned with befriending the women than acting in their best interests," Ferguson observes, almost as if she believes every blasphemous word that she's saying. "The girls run riot in her workshops, and from what I can see, none of them take her seriously. I believe that her judgement and her ethics have been compromised, but I'm sure..." Ferguson's eyes take on a diabolical sparkle as she mulls over her next words, "I'm sure you'd know that better than most people, wouldn't you, Doyle?"

In spite of vowing to bite her tongue only a matter of seconds ago, Franky's hackles are instantly raised.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she says lowly, standing to her full height and squaring off against Ferguson to drive home her point. "So she cares about making a difference, so what? Just because she hasn't got a stick wedged up her ass doesn't mean she isn't good at her job. She has more integrity in her little finger than any of the dipshit screws around here."

"Such loyalty, Doyle," Ferguson drawls, and now she's smirking in a way that makes Franky's guts coil with apprehension, "If only Miss Westfall afforded you the same courtesy. I hear you've been making a lot of progress in therapy. In fact, I believe you've made some quite… startling revelations... some of which are beyond the remit of patient confidentiality. After all, there are certain things you can't just…sweep under the carpet."

Franky tries not to react, tries not to let the sting of guilt and betrayal register on her features, but her stomach plummets to the floor and she can feel the colour draining from her face. She shifts on her feet, shaking her head violently as she tries not to jump to the obvious conclusion.

"I don't..." Franky can hear the tremor in her tone, so she takes a moment to moisten her lips, struggling to hold it together. Her mouth's as dry as sawdust when she finally manages to string a coherent sentence together. "I told you, Ferguson, I don't have a clue what you're banging on about, so how about you stop talking in riddles and get to the fucking point?"

"I'd just hate for this to have an adverse effect on your parole," The Freak continues, undeterred. "I mean, grievous bodily harm is bad enough, but add murder to the mix, and you're looking at another, what, 10-15 years? Maybe you'll even join Smith on the lifer's program. I'm sure she'd be glad of the company."

Franky reaches for the chair in front of her, clutching the backrest until her knuckles turn white. Her breathing sounds ragged, even to her own ears, but she forces herself to meet Ferguson's knowing gaze.

"Look, I don't know what that bitch told you, but if she's making out like I confessed to killing someone, she's fucking crazy. Like I'm going to bare my soul to some budget shrink in a fancy suit."

"That's what I thought," Ferguson says, in a tone that's half-amused and half-pitying, "Because you'd have to be _incredibly_ stupid to think that someone would risk their job to keep your confidence. You can't honestly believe that Miss Westfall cared about your welfare more than her own credibility? You're nothing to her in the big scheme of things, Doyle, and deep down, you must know that."

The words hit home like a rocket launcher straight to the heart, but Franky stuffs her hands into her pockets, trying not to show how much they hurt.

"It's her word against mine, she can't prove anything."

"But who do you think the parole board's going to believe, Doyle?" Ferguson sneers, and she's clearly relishing the look of wounded helplessness on Franky's face. "Of course, they don't necessarily have to know about Miss Westfall's...incriminating...accusations, and if she somehow...misinterpreted the situation..."

"Cut the crap, Ferguson," Franky spits out, and that familiar feeling of disassociated numbness is starting to wash over her, "What do you want me to do?"

Ferguson doesn't even bother to hide the fact that she had an ulterior motive all along.

"I want you to sign a statement attesting to the fact that Miss Westfall has made inappropriate advances towards you. Miss Bennett has already brought your somewhat...unorthodox...relationship to my attention and I'm sure you'll agree that it isn't appropriate for someone to abuse their authority, especially when they're in a position of trust – "

Franky's jaw works overtime as she swallows her natural instinct to refuse, because really, what has she got to lose? How could she have been such an idiot? How could she have trusted Bridget to keep her promise when everyone she's ever known has thrown her to the wolves? Bridget knew her freedom was at stake, she knew there would be no coming back from this, but she kicked her to the curb anyway. Now she's just another colossal fucking disappointment to add to the seemingly never-ending list. Franky's starting to wonder how many more she can take, but she's only got herself to blame. She shouldn't have opened up when every rational part of her brain was screaming at her not to, she shouldn't have let another fucking woman with a cracked moral compass chip away at her veneer of control.

"OK, I'll do it," she eventually hisses through clenched teeth, and now her mind's working overtime and her blood's boiling with the need to confront Bridget, because if the treacherous bitch thinks she can play her for a fool, she's sure as hell going to make her pay for it. "On one condition."

"Oh?" The Freak asks, looking surprised that Franky would even dare to bargain with her.

"That you let me speak to her first."

Ferguson smiles, like she's preparing to unleash a monster of her own making. "Consider it done."

Franky nods her understanding, and she manages to hold back the tears of anger and betrayal until she swivels on her heel and makes for the door. Still, Ferguson's next words stop her in her tracks.

"Be careful how you tread Franky, because if you overstep the mark again, I can't help you."


	2. Chapter 2

Bridget is diligently writing up notes on her latest session with Maxine Conway, warmed by how well the older woman seems to be handling herself in what could have been a hostile environment. Bridget can't help but think that Maxine's towering height and discernible muscle tone may have played a role in helping her to assimilate – especially as her fellow prisoners aren't exactly renowned for their open-mindedness - but beneath the brawn there's a soft spoken, well-meaning woman who seems more than deserving of a second chance.

Bridget flicks through Maxine's file, jotting down some notes on her sentencing report, but her neat handwriting turns into a startled scrawl when her office door is thrown open without any warning. It sounds like it's been hit by a battering ram, and the plasterboard starts to crumble at the point of impact, leaving a small dent in the wall.

Bridget looks on in open-mouthed shock as Franky saunters into her room unsupervised, marching past the picture that's positioned across from her desk. It's still swinging with the aftershocks of her entrance.

"Why'd you do it, huh?" Franky demands, before Bridget even has chance to voice her alarm. "I thought you were one of the good guys, but it turns out you only give a shit about yourself."

"Franky - " Bridget holds out a hand, trying to speak as soothingly as she can amidst her confusion, but she can't withhold a gasp when Franky stalks towards her, kicking the chair she's sitting on with surprising force. Bridget has no choice but to stumble to her feet or topple over with it.

"I fucking trusted you," Franky seethes, and Bridget feels her chest constrict when she sees the dangerous combination of hurt and fury contorting Franky's features. "But lecturing me about my trust issues and then screwing me over really wasn't a good move, Gidget. I mean, that kind of hypocrisy makes me crazy, you know?"

Franky hits the wall to illustrate her point, and Bridget tries not to cringe reflexively.

"OK, Franky, you need to calm down and tell me what it is that you think I've done," she urges, trying to keep her tone as measured as possible, but she knows all the tricks of the trade aren't going to help her right now.

"Oh, so you wanna play dumb, do ya? Insult my intelligence even more?"

They're more or less the same height, but it doesn't feel that way with Franky looming over her. The inmate's body is coiled with an explosive tension that Bridget isn't sure she can abate, and she edges towards the door, desperately trying to evaluate the situation.

She doesn't have time to think, though, because Franky seizes hold of her shoulders, flinging her against the nearest wall. The impact leaves her wheezing for breath, but Bridget pushes back, trying to struggle her way out of Franky's vice-like grip.

"Tell me why," Franky demands again, but there's no mistaking the anguish lacing her tone.

"Come on Franky, don't do this," Bridget pleads, "This is the anger talking. This isn't who you really are."

"And how the fuck would you know? You think you've got me all figured out? You don't know shit."

Franky's breath comes in hot spurts against her face, and under any other circumstances, Bridget would have found her proximity arousing, but now she realises that Franky's anger issues aren't just the product of a tortured childhood; they're real, and they're terrifying. She has a flashback to Franky pinning Liz Birdsworth against the wall, suffocating her with her bare hands, and for the first time since they've met, Bridget feels a sliver of fear race down her spine and settle deep in the pit of her stomach. She doesn't like this. She doesn't like being scared of the woman who's made her feel more alive – and more passionate about her job – than she has in years.

"Then talk to me," she implores, still frantically trying to make Franky see reason, "Tell me what's got you so riled up. You want to air your grievances, fine, but this isn't the way to do it. This isn't helping anyone."

When Franky's grip tightens even further, digging into her flesh with painful intensity, Bridget's gentle tone slowly gives way to desperation. "Think about your parole, Franky."

"Are you kidding me? You've just given the Freak all the dirt she needs to stop me from getting out of here for good and you're telling me to keep the fucking faith?"

The penny finally drops, and Bridget's racing heart lurches inside her chest.

"You think I told Ferguson about Meg Jackson?"

"Well, how the hell else would she know? You sold me down the shitter, and now she wants me to give you a taste of your own medicine," Franky retorts, but a tiny smidgen of doubt is starting to creep across her features. Her hold on Bridget's shoulders loosens slightly, and Bridget sucks in a staggered breath.

"Shit," she cusses, squeezing her eyes shut as she imagines the hell the Governor is planning to rain down on them both. "Shit, shit, shit."

When she opens them again, Franky is looking at her with the hopeless uncertainty of a woman whose world keeps shifting on its axis, like she doesn't know who or what to believe anymore.

"You know, I really thought we had something here, Franky, but if you honestly believe I'd invest so much time and energy into our sessions, just so I could turn around and stab you in the back, then you go ahead and do whatever you need to do to make yourself feel better." Bridget's starting to feel braver now, because she can see that Franky's wrath is on the verge of waning. "Throttle me, punch my lights out, have at it... because maybe I got it all wrong. Maybe you are a cold-blooded killer, after all."

Bridget holds Franky's gaze unflinchingly, but her resolve crumbles when she sees Franky's lower lip start to tremble. The inmate's eyes pool with tears, and now the hands that are encircling her shoulders brush against her arms in what feels like an apologetic caress. Bridget can't stop herself from reaching out, because Franky looks like she's about to keel over, but Franky lets out a tormented cry, slumping onto the nearest chair and burying her head in her hands.

"I don't know how Ferguson found out, Franky, but I promise you I didn't betray your confidence," Bridget informs the inmate earnestly. "I said our sessions were private and I meant it, but if you're so quick to doubt my veracity and call my integrity into question, then what are we even doing here?"

Franky shrugs listlessly, and Bridget sighs, tucking her hands under her armpits to try and stop them from shaking.

"You know how Ferguson operates, Franky," Bridget reminds her, with a hint of frustration in her tone, "She plays people off against each other, makes them second-guess themselves, plants the seeds of doubt..."

"But she isn't bloody psychic, so someone must have - " A look of slowly dawning realisation crosses Franky's features. "It was Liz. That fucking lagger. You saw how pissed she was when I took her kid under my wing, and she's made it pretty clear that she wants me out of the picture."

Bridget can feel the rage coming off Franky in waves and realises just how volatile the inmate can be when she makes a beeline for the door, ready to even another imaginary score, but Bridget grabs her arm, stopping her in her tracks.

"For God's sake Franky, if the last ten minutes taught you anything, you wouldn't be so quick to jump to conclusions," she snaps, and Franky turns to look at her with guilty eyes, but Bridget can see how restless she is beneath the momentary contrition.

"Look, Liz was drunk during your last confrontation, she wasn't thinking clearly, but she's sober now. Why would she want to cross you when you're in a perfect position to use her daughter as payback? I don't..."

Bridget abruptly trails off as a horrifying thought occurs to her, and it's the only possibility that makes any sense. Her eyes dart around the room, trying to spot any signs of covert surveillance, even as she's inwardly saying a silent prayer that she won't find any. Franky looks confused for a moment, but then her eyes widen with unbridled panic as she reads between the lines.

Seconds later, they're both tearing up the office, and the sinking feeling in the pit of Bridget's stomach gives way to a gaping abyss when Franky emerges from underneath her desk, holding a tape recorder in her trembling hands.

"I'm fucked," she proclaims, and she looks like all of the fight has been beaten out of her in one fell swoop. "If she's got a taped confession, she's never going to let me walk out of here. I'm going to be her lap dog until someone's zipping me up in a body bag, aren't I?"

Bridget finds herself blinking back tears as she watches Franky yank out the tape and pummel it into submission, tearing out the spool and ripping it to shreds. They both know it won't make any difference, though, because Ferguson still has the tape that holds the ticket to Franky's freedom, and her future. Bridget wonders exactly how many recordings the Governor has amassed over the past few months. Has she been listening to them since the very beginning, waiting for Franky to reveal her weaknesses so she could mercilessly exploit them; biding her time until she had enough ammo to tank Bridget's career? Bridget knew there was something off about the Governor, but she never imagined her questionable methods and obvious lack of empathy would manifest themselves in this kind of cruelty. Joan Ferguson isn't just a psychopath, she's a fucking monster.

"Franky, Ferguson's not going to get away with this - " Bridget tries to sound as reassuring as possible, but Franky's staring at the wall, digging her nails into her palms. Her vacuous expression makes something inside of Bridget ache, and she looks on in dismay as Franky inadvertently bites through her bottom lip, making it bleed.

"Hey," Bridget can't resist the compulsion anymore, and she crosses the room, kneeling down in front of Franky and laying her hands on her juddering thighs. "Promise me you're not going to give up, OK?"

"What's the point?" Franky retaliates, in a voice that's hollow and completely devoid of expression. "I'm gonna be spending my life in Queen Bea's shadow, looking over my shoulder every minute of every day; doing sexual favours for those disgusting, disease-ridden bull-dykes just to get by. Oh, and let's not forget the added privilege of being The Freak's right-hand woman, doing her bidding until I hate myself even more than I do already. Yeah, sounds like a barrel of laughs."

Bridget can tell that Franky's hanging on by a rapidly fraying thread, and she can feel her self-control starting to waver.

"Look," she commands, cupping Franky's face in her hands until the inmate is forced to initiate eye contact. "I can't compromise my professionalism any more than I already have, Franky - I can't, but we're not going to be patient and therapist forever. So believe me when I say you have something to live for, OK? "

She brushes her thumb against Franky's cheek, and then tenderly wipes away the blood on her lip, but she's a little surprised when Franky jerks away from her.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Gidget?" she demands, but Bridget takes heart from the fact that there's a little more passion in her tone this time around.

"I mean, you get why I came here today, right? I was gonna rough you up a bit, and then I was gonna sign a statement saying that we were banging like rabbits; that you were all over me like a rash. I was supposed to be helping Ferguson get you fired, but look at you, you're so fucking noble... "

"Franky..." Bridget tries to interject, but Franky doesn't want to hear it.

"I mean, who am I kidding?" Franky says, with a self-deprecating snort, "This is never going to work. I'm never getting parole and, even I do, you're not going to look at me twice once we're out there in the real world. I mean, dating an ex-con will pretty much kill your social life; your friends and family are gonna think you've lost the plot. You're so far out of my league - "

"Self-pity really doesn't suit you, Franky," Bridget says wryly, wondering what the hell happened to the cock-sure woman who had been shamelessly trying to hit on her since their first session.

"Yeah, well I'm all out of options now, aren't I?" Franky retorts, ducking her head.

Bridget maintains her stance, hands resting gently on Franky's knees, and her heart starts thudding when Franky's delicate fingers tiptoe over her wrists, tracing a tender pattern over the back of her hands and leaving a trail of longing in their wake. Franky twines their fingers, and when Bridget doesn't pull away, the inmate meets her gaze, and there's a vulnerability in her expression that Bridget's only ever seen once before.

"I'm scared, Gidget," Franky whispers, and that admission just about breaks Bridget's heart.

"I know," Bridget commiserates, gently squeezing her hand, "But I'm going to fix this, OK?"

"Oh, so you're a miracle worker now, are ya? What're you gonna do? Crack her over the head with a crow bar? Push her down the stairs? I knew you were a bad-ass underneath that whole buttoned-up thing you've got going on."

Bridget can't help but laugh at that, although the gravity of the situation quickly wipes the smile off her face.

"No, I'm going to figure out what makes Joan Ferguson tick, and then I'm going to play her at her own game." _Or die trying_ , she silently adds. She glances down at their linked hands, realising that neither of them want to let go, but they quickly pull apart when they hear a door unlock in the distance.

"Shit," Bridget curses, hastily straightening her clothes. She picks up the tape recorder, depositing it in her desk drawer, and then shoves the destroyed reel into her jacket pocket. She looks around to see Franky hurriedly straightening up the office, trying to remove any evidence of their earlier altercation, although there's no hiding the ding in the wall.

"Everything OK in here?" Matt Fletcher asks, sticking his head around the door, and Bridget's momentarily grateful for how distracted he's been lately, because he barely bats an eyelid.

"Fine, thanks, Matt," Bridget demurs, giving him a warm smile. "How are things with you?"

"Yeah, good," he mumbles non-committally, turning his attention to Franky. "Governor wants to see you, Doyle."

"Well, you can tell her where to shove it," Franky retorts, turning to look at Bridget to gauge her reaction.

"Hang in there, OK? And don't do anything stupid," Bridget says softly, and Franky hesitates for a moment, before giving her a barely perceptible nod.

"I'm sorry," she mouths, and her remorse is palpable. She offers Bridget a tremulous smile, but when Bridget smiles back with the full intensity of the feelings she's almost given up trying to hide, for a second, the sparkle returns to Franky's troubled eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Franky flops onto her threadbare mattress, feeling completely drained. She closes her eyes for a moment, but then all she can see is the look of thinly-disguised fear on Bridget's face when she cornered her against that wall. Bridget clearly thought she was going to beat the living shit out of her, and Franky realises that the therapist was right all along – she's the type of person that attacks first and asks questions later. She couldn't follow through with it, but that's not going to matter to Bridget, because they both know what she's capable of when someone pushes too hard.

Bridget's already risked so much for her, and Franky feels sick to the stomach when she realises how close she came to destroying her therapist's faith in her, all because she's programmed to expect the worst of everyone. She wonders if Bridget still thinks that she's a worthy cause; if she would even give her the time of day if she saw some of the shit that goes down in here. Sure, killing Meg Jackson was an accident, but Franky knows she's still got plenty of blood and broken dreams on her hands.

She remembers the sting of satisfaction she got from smacking Kim across the face, as though the younger woman didn't have the right to be pissed about being used for sex and then tossed aside as soon as there was a better offer on the table. She thinks about how she fed some poor kid's addiction by pouring booze down her throat, just to piss off her mother, and how she nearly throttled Liz for daring to stick up for her own. Then there was the heartbroken look on Boomer's face when she realised Franky's love wasn't unconditional after all; that she'd just been keeping her sweet so she'd have someone to save her ass when she couldn't fend for herself. She wonders how Bridget would react if she walked in on Franky with her head between the legs of some disgusting scourge of humanity, struggling not to gag as she whored herself out to get her hands on some gear.

No, Franky knows she isn't a good person; sometimes she even wonders if she belongs in this shit house; if she deserves to die inside a squalid cell. She lashes out every time someone hits a nerve, lunges at anyone who taps into her insecurities, and Bridget deserves so much better than being at the mercy of some temperamental hothead. This isn't about the thrill of the chase anymore, or the kick she gets from having a hold over someone who's supposed to be in a position of authority. She doesn't want to watch Bridget unravel, she doesn't want to force her to compromise everything she believes in, she just wants her to be safe. Knowing Bridget's going up against Ferguson to defend her honour should make her want to sing from the rooftops, but instead it fills her with a sense of dread, especially after her conversation with The Freak this evening.

She mentally replays their confrontation, wondering if she's made the biggest mistake of her life - if maybe Bridget would be better off out of this - but trying to protect her means ruining her career, and Franky can't bring herself to do it, not when it means she might never get to see her again.

" _You can go fuck yourself Ferguson. Gidget's staying here until you find a decent reason to get rid of her - which is never gonna happen, because she's fucking faultless at her job."_

" _You do realise what this means, Doyle?_

" _Do your worst, you twisted bitch, because I'd rather get another 20 years than be your whipping girl."_

Franky was faking the bravado, but it had the desired effect, because Ferguson looked a little taken aback. Franky felt a fleeting sense of triumph at getting under The Freak's watertight skin, but it didn't last for long. There was a moment of deafening silence, and then Ferguson had turned to look at her with a blood-curdling smile and an expression that was borderline maniacal.

" _As you wish."_

Franky knows it's only a matter of time before that tape ends up in the hands of the police. She feels like she has a ticking time bomb taped to her tits, and Bridget's the only one who can diffuse it. She just hopes they both don't get blown to smithereens in the process.

"Oh my God, Franky!"

Franky jolts back to reality when she hears Sophie's concerned tone, and it's only then that she realises she's scratched her arm raw. Her fingernails are caked in blood, and she stares at the wound in shock. She thinks of Jodie, rotting away in the psych ward, just another person that's fallen foul of her fucked-up machinations, and she hastily pulls her sleeve over her arm.

"Not now, Soph, OK?" she says, a little more sharply than she intended, and the fact that Sophie immediately scurries away just confirms that everyone knows how dangerous it is to get too close to her.

She tugs hard on her flimsy bedsheets and then glances up at the ceiling, wondering if they'll take her weight, wondering if she should save Bridget the fucking trouble, because how the hell is she going to get out of this mess? But then Franky shakes her head, wondering when she became such a fucking wuss. She's not some weak-willed, self-harming dickhead who cries herself to sleep at night, she's a fighter, and she hasn't been running the gauntlet for this long to give up at the final hurdle, no matter how monumental it might be.

Besides, Bridget's even hotter when she's pissed, and if this all ends with Franky facing murder charges and Bridget being forced to resign, at least she won't have squandered what little time they have left together.

* * *

Bridget's first instinct is to march into Ferguson's office and slam the tape recorder down on her desk, taking her to task for her flagrant breach of confidentiality and woeful lack of professionalism. Knowing that woman has been listening to her every word makes her skin crawl, and if she feels like Ferguson's infringed on _her_ privacy, then she can only imagine how violated Franky must feel. The fact that the Governor could be callous enough to listen to the inner workings of the inmates' minds and then use their darkest secrets to fuel her own agenda is an evil that's beyond Bridget's realms of comprehension, and it pisses her off even more that Ferguson was trying to use her as a scapegoat. It hurts that Franky was so quick to turn on her, and Bridget still feels shaken by her unprecedented display of aggression, but that was clearly Ferguson's intention all along – to make her look duplicitous and loose-lipped so the women wouldn't trust her as far as they could throw her.

Bridget has encountered some of the most notorious criminals in the system, but the Governor's skills of manipulation and pathological lies would put the likes of Ted Bundy to shame. There's now no doubt in Bridget's mind that the Governor abused Jodie Spiterri to the point where she was a self-flagellating shell of her former self, and that she immobilised Bea Smith to ensure she wouldn't be able to offer the poor girl any solidarity at her hearing.

So yes, Bridget wants to confront her, she wants to tell Ferguson that she intends to make it her life's mission to keep her away from these vulnerable women, but then Ferguson would know that she's onto her and Bridget's options would be limited. As soon as Ferguson walks into Bridget's office and finds that her cassette deck is empty, the game will be over anyway, so Bridget's determined to stay as late as she has to, hardly daring to take a bathroom break in case it gives Ferguson a window of opportunity to retrieve the tape recorder.

Her malingering doesn't go unnoticed.

"Miss Westfall, haven't you got a home to go to?"

Bridget tries not to jump when the Governor's imposing frame fills her door way at just gone 9pm, and she forces herself to muster a smile.

"Just catching up on some paperwork," she says lightly, and then she regards Ferguson with a guarded expression. "You must be working late, too. No rest for the wicked, huh?"

Ferguson's eyes narrow slightly.

"Indeed," she says coldly, and then a small smile plays on her pursed lips. "I suppose you're compiling notes from your session with Francesca Doyle this afternoon? She seemed terribly agitated before she came to speak with you, I have to say."

"Yes, I was curious as to why you sent her to me after I'd signed her care over to one of my colleagues?" Bridget asks, tilting her head to the side in an attempt to feign intrigue.

"You were the only on-site therapist available and given her erratic state, I thought it best not to wait."

"Mmm," Bridget concurs, and she frowns with mock concern. "I'm actually worried that her parole hearing might be placing Franky under undue pressure. She's beginning to show signs of paranoia." She regards Ferguson intently. "She seems to be under the impression that we're all conspiring to engineer her demise."

Ferguson's eyes flit over her face, like they're searching for some kind of give-away, but Bridget regards her unblinkingly, refusing to look away, until Ferguson lets out a hollow laugh.

"Ha! Well, that's ludicrous, of course."

"Of course," Bridget echoes drily. "I assured her that I only have her best interests at heart."

"As do we all," Ferguson reminds her, and Bridget resists the urge to roll her eyes.

"Anyway," Ferguson continues, "I'm glad you were able to talk some sense into her. You two seem to have developed quite the... bond."

Ferguson's clearly expecting her to take the bait, but Bridget just smiles disarmingly.

"Was there something you wanted, Joan?" she asks innocently, deliberately refusing to address the Governor by her rank, "I was only planning to stay for another half hour or so. You're not in any rush to get rid of me, are you?" she adds, knowing full well Ferguson will pick up on her double meaning.

"No," Ferguson negates in a clipped tone, but there's a hint of suspicion in her frigid gaze. "As you were, Miss Westfall."

"Enjoy the rest of your evening," Bridget declares, as affably as she can manage to, although she silently adds, _"but I'll be damned if I know how you sleep at night."_

Another hour later, and Bridget breathes a sigh of relief when she looks out of her office window and sees that Ferguson's black BMW is no longer in the car park. She waits another fifteen minutes, just to be sure, and then she heads towards the Governor's office with a file of papers in her hands. She waits until the CCTV camera revolves in the opposite direction, and then she hastily scrambles inside, closing the door quietly behind her. She leaves the light off, using the torch on her mobile phone to guide her, and spends the next 15 minutes frantically searching for that bloody cassette tape, freezing in a tableau of fear every time she hears a noise in the distance. Ferguson might be at home, but she knows her resident minion – Vera Bennett - is working night shifts this week, and if she catches her in here, Bridget will be kissing goodbye to her career... and to Franky.

Bridget's hands are clammy with perspiration and she can feel her frustration mounting every time she unearths a new potential hiding place, only to come up empty-handed. She makes sure everything is positioned exactly where she found it, because Ferguson's psychopathic need to be in control is evidenced all over her office, from the anti-bacterial wipes in her draw, to the pencils that are arranged in military formation on her desk, with every tip sharpened to precisely the same length. Even her books are arranged in alphabetical order, and Bridget shakes her head when she sees the title of one of them: "Boot Camp Justice."

Ferguson's office is more clinical than a hospital waiting room, and Bridget absorbs the complete lack of sentimentality with discerning eyes. There's only one picture on Joan's desk, and it's of her in a fencing suit, wielding a sword in one hand and a trophy in another. Bridget suspects it isn't there as a keep sake, it's another statement of power and serves to remind the inmates that she's not someone to be reckoned with.

Thirty minutes later and Bridget finally has to concede defeat. The tape obviously isn't here, and she feels foolish for thinking that someone as cunning as Ferguson would leave her bargaining chips in plain sight. She's probably got the tape stashed away at home somewhere, and Bridget can't exactly envisage herself staging a break-in, as tempting as it may be.

"Shit," she cusses into the darkness, gazing up at the heavens in a mixture of annoyance and desperation.

"Well Franky, I tried," she announces to the empty room, but it still feels like she's failed the inmate, that she inadvertently orchestrated this whole situation. If she hadn't pushed Franky into opening up, if she hadn't forced her outside of her comfort zone, she never would have cracked under the strain. Bridget will never forget the harrowing sound of Franky's sobs as she finally admitted the truth, and it had taken all of her willpower to keep a professional distance as Franky crumbled into a dejected heap in front of her door. All she wanted to do was wrap the inmate in her arms and tell her everything was going to be OK, but instead the only solace she could offer was promising to keep her secret. Knowing that it was all for nothing leaves Bridget feeling like she might have some anger management issues of her own.

Bridget only has one other tool at her disposal, but Franky isn't going to like it. Still, if outsmarting Ferguson means calling her bluff, then Bridget's willing to test the waters. If it stops the Governor from sinking her claws into the other women and ensures that Franky gets her much-deserved shot at parole, then maybe dipping a toe into the pool of moral ambiguity might actually be worth it.

"And may the truth set you free," she whispers under her breath, checking the cameras again before she stealthily makes her way back to her office. She fires off a text to Neil Hacking, the Chairman of the Board, and fervently hopes she isn't signing her life away.

* * *

"What the hell?" Franky asks anxiously, and she's clearly wondering why she's been pulled from breakfast duty and summoned to the board room at 8.30 in the morning. She looks like she's aged ten years overnight, and her smoky eye shadow only serves to accentuate the dark crevices under her eyes. Her complexion looks drawn and sallow, a testament to how little sleep she's had.

Bridget isn't faring much better, having spent the whole night concocting a plan that feels far too elaborate in the cold light of day, and then fretting about whether she actually has the nerve to pull it off.

She hastily glances around, checking the coast is clear, and then she rests her hand on Franky's elbow, hurriedly guiding her to the alcove underneath the stairs.

"Gidget, you're freaking me out. What's going on?" Franky demands again, and Bridget studies the inmate's perturbed face, well aware that if she screws this up, it could be the last time she has the opportunity. She still finds it fascinating, how someone so closed off can have such expressive features, and she wonders how horrified Franky would be if she knew that most of the time, her underlying vulnerability shines through her tough-girl demeanour. Bridget can read her like a book, and right now, Franky's agitation could thwart her whole plan.

"Do you trust me?" she asks Franky, and there's an intensity in her tone that conveys the seriousness behind her question.

Franky bites her lip, shuffling back and forth on the balls of her feet.

"I want to," she admits, and her voice cracks on the last syllable. The _"so please don't let me down"_ is implicit, but Bridget hears it loud and clear, and her voice is hoarse with repressed emotion as she places a steadying hand on Franky's shoulder.

"I can't promise that I can pull this off, Franky, but God knows, I'm going to try."

Their eyes lock for a moment, and Bridget finds herself swallowing around the lump in her throat when she sees the gratitude in Franky's gaze. They're jolted out of the moment when they hear Matt Fletcher's voice in the distance, though, and Bridget is suddenly all business.

"I need you to follow my lead, and no matter what comes out of my mouth, don't look shocked, don't look surprised, just keep your expression as neutral as possible, OK?" Bridget instructs in a frantic whisper.

"What?" Franky looks lost. "You're sending me in there blind?"

"Franky, I don't have time to explain. Just do as I ask, OK?"

Bridget can hear the board members making their way towards the meeting room, so she can't sugar-coat her words any more, she just gives Franky a reassuring smile and then waits in the corridor to greet them. She shakes Neil's hand and nods her way through the perfunctory greetings, knowing she can't afford to appear nervous. She can't afford to falter at all.

She holds the door open for Franky, trying to ignore her quizzical look, and then gestures for her to take a seat. She waits until everyone settles around the table, trying not to resent the fact that they're tucking into coffee and Danish pastries without a care in the world while she feels ready to puke.

She takes a gulp of water to soothe her parched throat, and then gets gracefully to her feet, ready to address the Board of Governors.

"Thank you all for agreeing to convene here this morning. I can only apologise for the short notice, but I think the severity of the situation warrants your immediate input."

"OK Bridget, you've got our attention. What's this all about?" Neil says brusquely, and Bridget tries not to fixate on the dollop of jam that's stuck to his stubble. Unfortunately, Franky's etiquette isn't quite as refined, and Bridget has to bite her lip when she sees the inmate's amused smirk.

"Wentworth has always been a facility that favours rehabilitation over punitive measures, which is why you appointed me to help safeguard the welfare of these women. I felt like I was starting to make some real progress in both my workshops and my one-on-one therapy sessions, but that progress has been severely hampered by the attitude of Governor Joan Ferguson, who seems to believe that the women's mental health issues are inherent character flaws and not a product of their environment. Governor Ferguson has made it clear on numerous occasions that my efforts are in vain, and she seems to believe that most of the women are beyond redemption. Like Franky, here, for example."

Bridget gestures to the inmate, and even though she can feel Franky watching her attentively, she can't afford to initiate eye contact. She knows seeing the other woman's reaction to her words will throw her off her game, so she concentrates on the Board members instead, knowing they'll be less inclined to doubt her honesty if she looks them squarely in the eyes.

"Recently, I've noticed a change in the way the women are reacting towards me – they seem more hostile, less inclined to seek me out, and I couldn't understand why I seemed to be losing their trust. Then Franky confronted me in my office, and accused me of feeding information to Governor Ferguson; information that Ferguson was threatening to use to veto her parole."

She takes a moment to let her words sink in, and sees more than a few raised eyebrows.

"At first, I thought she was being absurd..." Bridget admits, reaching for the transparent plastic bag inside her briefcase, "Until I found this under my desk." She shows them the tape recorder, sending it careering across the table so they can take a closer look, and draws comfort from the shocked expressions and mumbles of outrage that ensue.

"It seems Governor Ferguson has been taping all of my private sessions with the women, and then using what they've told me in confidence to blackmail them," she clarifies, even though she's stating the obvious at this point.

"You realise these are serious allegations that you're making, Bridget?" Neil warns her, and Bridget dips her head in acknowledgement.

"I do, which is why I was reluctant to come forward at first," she informs them earnestly. "I wanted to catch Ferguson in the act and prove that she was intentionally using the recordings to further her own agenda, which is why I enlisted the help of Franky."

Bridget finally dares to look in Franky's direction, and hopes that she's the only one who knows her well enough to read her expression, which is caught somewhere between _"what the fuck are you doing?"_ and _"toss me a friggin' clue."_

"I asked her to help me stage a mock session and make up something big, something juicy, something that was bound to catch the Governor's attention. Granted, I wasn't expecting her to go to such extremes – like claiming that she'd "accidentally" murdered Meg Jackson - " Bridget says, with a snort of wry humour, "But I have to say, she turned in a pretty convincing performance."

"Pretty convincing? They should be nominating me for a Logie," Franky chips in out of the blue, and Bridget has to fight to hide her smile, saying a silent prayer of thanks that the inmate is so quick to catch on.

"We recorded that session several weeks ago with no recrimination from Governor Ferguson, and I was almost starting to wonder if I'd misinterpreted the situation, but yesterday, Ferguson summoned Franky to her office and threatened to hand over the taped "confession" to the police and add another 10-15 years to her sentence," Bridget informs them gravely, and she's gathering steam now that she's finally telling the unmitigated truth.

"And can you tell the Board what she asked you to do in return, Franky?" she prompts, and Franky glances at her, barely missing a beat before she takes her cue.

"She said she wants Bridget gone, and if I didn't sign a statement saying that she'd made inappropriate advances towards me, I could kiss goodbye to my parole."

The Board of Governors collectively look disgusted, but Derek Channing holds up his hand, eyeing Franky with a mixture of curiosity and scepticism.

"And what did she threaten you with the first time around, Miss Doyle? What made you bring this to Miss Westfall's attention in the first place?"

It isn't a question Bridget was preparing for, but Franky handles it with aplomb.

"Just some stuff I said in the heat of the moment, ya know? Bridget kept encouraging me to vent more, so I told her I wanted to kill Bea Smith for screwing me over... but last time I checked she was still alive," Franky concludes, with a cocky smile.

"And I take it there's no merit in the Governor's concerns about the nature of your relationship?" Channing continues, looking back and forth between them as if he's expecting one of them to wilt under his scrutiny.

"Of course n - " Bridget starts to say, but Franky beats her to it.

"Look, I'm not gonna lie, Bridget's a stone cold fox and you can't blame a girl for trying, but as soon as I towed the line she shut me down completely and shipped me off to another shrink. Major bummer," Franky laments, earning a few smirks from the men sitting around the table.

"Franky may have mistaken my desire to help her better herself for something else," Bridget concedes, and it's the one lie that she nearly chokes on, "But as soon as I sensed that things were amiss, I put an end to our sessions. Miss Ferguson may remain unconvinced about the nature of our relationship, but I assure you that nothing... untoward... has happened. In fact, if you ask Governor Ferguson to hand over those tapes, you can see – or hear – that for yourself."

"Then I think that's exactly what we'll do," Neil asserts, looking to his fellow Board members for validation. "Agreed?"

Bridget's eyes hastily flick towards Franky, and even though they both know better than to beam at each other, Bridget can see from the glint in Franky's eyes that she's barely containing the urge to jump for joy.

* * *

"Well, it's ridiculous! In fact, it's downright slanderous!" Ferguson rages, and if looks could kill, Bridget would have been dead five minutes ago.

"So are you denying that you used this device to record Miss Westfall's private therapy sessions with the inmates?" Neil counters, gesturing to the tape recorder that's lying on the table like a red flag in front of a bull.

Ferguson looks torn, like she's weighing up the pros and cons of answering in the affirmative.

"Miss Westfall is a waste of space and her sessions have been of no benefit to the women whatsoever. I merely wanted to demonstrate how ineffectual her techniques are."

"That's bullshit! Everyone was singing her praises until you stuck your oar in," Franky interjects, and Bridget can't help but be touched by her outrage, even though it's hardly the time or place to express it.

"Yes, well, you would say that, Doyle, wouldn't you?" Joan retorts, with a malicious smirk. Her expression makes it more than clear that she doesn't think it's Bridget's intelligence that has garnered Franky's loyalty.

"Enough!" Neil barks out, shooting a warning glance in Franky's direction. "You've had your say Doyle, so put a sock in it."

Franky holds up her hands in mock surrender, affecting a look of innocence.

"Joan, you've made it clear that you don't approve of Miss Westfall's appointment, but why resort to these kind of extremes?" Neil challenges her. "Why not just approach the Board with your concerns?"

"Because you put her here to spy on _me_ , did you not?" Ferguson asks him coldly, with a laser-like glare.

"From all accounts, I think you're the one that's been doing the spying, Governor," Graham Dyson chips in, and Ferguson swivels around to face him, telegraphing her offence.

"Nonsense! I simply felt that giving Miss Westfall free rein was a poor judgement call, and that she might benefit from some closer supervision."

"And yet at no point did you ever ask to sit in on one of my workshops, or take the time to read my notes," Bridget observes. "In fact, there were several instances where you actually _forbade_ me from counselling women who were in dire need of help, so I'm not quite sure how that constitutes 'free rein.'"

Bridget doesn't look away when Ferguson homes in on her, red-faced and clearly apoplectic with anger. Her jaw is clenched so tightly, Bridget can see the muscles in her cheek starting to spasm.

"You think you're so clever, don't you, Miss Westfall?" she says ominously, and Bridget makes sure the other Board members don't see her lips twitch in response. Ferguson does, though, and Bridget half expects her to send the pitcher of water flying across the table.

"And what about the allegations that you used what you heard during these sessions to blackmail the women?" Neil persists, and Ferguson snorts in disbelief.

"Blackmail? Is that what you're calling it? This delinquent confessed to murdering my predecessor and you expect me to just white-wash over it?" she says, feigning moral outrage as she gestures contemptuously towards Franky.

"Then explain to me why the police don't already have that tape, Joan? Why are we only finding out about this alleged murder now?" Neil reasons, folding his arms as he waits for some kind of justification.

Bridget can't resist glancing surreptitiously at Franky, because Neil's finally hit the jackpot. There's no way Ferguson can worm her way out of this one, and judging by the startled look on her face, she knows it.

"It doesn't make any sense," Neil continues, like a predator gleefully circling his prey, "Why would Miss Doyle risk incriminating herself by coming to us? And more to the point, why haven't you suspended her parole hearing long before now? Perhaps you suspected that the confession wasn't real all along?" he surmises, and Bridget can barely contain her relief.

"Oh, it was real, all right," The Governor asserts, and Bridget sees Franky look away from Ferguson's accusatory gaze.

"So you were intending to hold it over Doyle's head until... what?" Graham ventures, looking flabbergasted by Ferguson's audacity.

"Until she paid for her crimes! Isn't that the point? I mean, this is a prison, after all... isn't it?" she practically bellows, and Neil shakes his head despairingly.

"I'm sorry, Joan, but you've already said too much. You know we had concerns about your leadership skills after that whole debacle with Smith, and we clearly made a grave mistake by giving you the benefit of the doubt back then. I didn't want to believe Jodie Spiterri's allegations, but now I'm starting to wonder if perhaps there was a grain of truth in them, after all. You've already admitted to breaching the women's privacy, taping them without their knowledge or consent, wilfully withholding evidence - "

"And you're all so noble, of course," Ferguson sneers, abruptly cutting him off. "Why don't we ask Mr Channing about _his_ extra-curricular activities - "

"Come on Joan, don't do this - " Derek Channing protests, but Ferguson looks unhinged, like a woman who's got nothing left to lose.

"Why don't you tell them about your supplemental income, Mr Channing? How you whore women out like chattel just to make ends meet? You have the nerve to stand there and judge me for trying to help reform these women when you... _you_ are nothing but a glorified pimp."

"For God's sake, Joan - " Neil interjects, but Channing holds up a hand to silence him.

"No, she's right, I've made some mistakes I'm not proud of," he admits, ruefully. "Francesca Doyle isn't the only person our so-called Governor has been blackmailing."

Bridget's eyes widen with shock, but Channing hasn't finished confessing his sins yet.

"Ferguson stalked me for weeks, took incriminating pictures, and told me if I didn't convince the Board to keep her around, my reputation would be in ruins."

"Holy shit," Franky says, letting out a low whistle, and Bridget shakes her head, throwing her a pacifying look.

"There was an incident a few months ago where the inmates were on the verge of rioting," Channing admits, hanging his head in shame. "Governor Ferguson refused to allow me to call for back-up, because she cared more about saving face than saving lives. She didn't want the Board to know that she had lost control of the women again, even when they had an infected syringe held to the throat of one of her officers."

Channing loosens his tie, eyeing them all with a mixture of anger and regret.

"So yes, I'll resign, but I'm taking that warped bitch down with me."

Neil nods his head in acknowledgement, shooting a disappointed look in Channing's direction before he turns his attention to Ferguson.

"I'm sorry, Joan, we're going to have to ask you to leave with immediate effect. I'll arrange for one of your staff members to collect your belongings," he assures her, "But I strongly suggest that you go quietly, because I _will_ have someone escort you from the premises if needs be."

"You'll be hearing from my lawyers," Ferguson informs him, with the last shred of dignity she can muster.

"Yeah, good luck with that," Franky crows, raising her hand in a taunting wave. "Bon voyage, you fucking freak."

"Oh, you haven't seen the last of me, Doyle," Ferguson vows, and her glacial expression is genuinely chilling.

"Give it up, Joan," Bridget beseeches, because Ferguson's starting to appear less like a human being and more like a villainous caricature, "You don't get to play God anymore. All you have at your disposal are empty threats."

Bridget barely has time to register the shift in Ferguson's demeanour before the older woman lunges at her, hands outstretched. She's inches away from wrapping them around Bridget's throat, but then Franky comes out of nowhere, positioning herself between them, and shoves Ferguson forcefully against the chest, sending her stumbling backwards. It's quite an impressive feat, considering Ferguson is built like a line-backer and towers over most of the men in the room.

"Back the fuck off!" Franky yells at her, and the Board members rush to restrain Ferguson as Bridget reaches for Franky, willing her to hold back.

"Franky, leave it. It's OK. It's over," she murmurs, allowing her hand to briefly brush against the inmate's back. She can feel the tension in Franky's rigid shoulders, like she's waiting to pounce, but her touch seems to have a soothing effect and Franky steps to the side, making room for the four Board members who are currently trying to tame a furious Ferguson and frog-march her towards the door.

"Get her back to her cell, will you?" Neil asks, and Bridget nods, turning to face a jubilant Franky. She finally allows herself to smile, and Franky looks like she's about to break into a victory dance.

"Come on, let's go."

* * *

"Do you have any idea how hard it is not to kiss you right now?" Franky asks as they're walking back towards H Block, and she's so close that their shoulders are practically rubbing.

"You can thank me later, Franky," Bridget says wryly, neglecting to mention that she was thinking the exact same thing. The shame of having to lie to achieve her objectives; the relief of knowing that it was for a good cause; the hope that there might be a point in the not-too-distant future when she can kiss Franky without questioning her own ethics or agonising over the professional ramifications, is overwhelming. She just wants to collapse into Franky's arms and let herself _feel_ for once, but she has to think about the bigger picture instead of losing herself in the moment.

"Nobody's ever put their neck on the line for me like that before," Franky confesses, and there's a wonderment in her tone that makes Bridget stop in her tracks. She's not expecting to see the tears flooding Franky's eyes, and she wonders if the inmate knows how much it hurts her not to be able to brush them away.

"When I look at you, I see so much potential, Franky, and it kills me to see you locked up in here, where no one can appreciate your talents – "

Bridget ignores Franky's suggestive wink and lewd grin, rolling her eyes.

"I mean your intelligence, your passion, your humour," she clarifies, smiling warmly. "You've been to hell and back, but you've still retained your humanity, and you have so much to offer. You deserve so much better than this."

"Fucking hell Gidget, you're gonna make me cry."

Bridget's not sure whether to laugh or choke on her own empathy when she sees a lone tear trickling down Franky's cheek, which the inmate hastily wipes away, clearly embarrassed.

"You always play it by the book, so I know what it must have taken for you to do that for me today," Franky admits, biting her lip, "And I promise you, I'm going to spend the rest of my life showing you that you made the right decision, OK? I'm not gonna say that you make me want to be a better person, because that's as clichéd as fuck - "

"Hey, I'll take it," Bridget jokes, and Franky laughs, but her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"When I think about what I did to you yesterday - "

"I don't expect you to work through your baggage overnight, Franky. It takes time," Bridget informs her, "But if you _ever_ lay a finger on me like that again - "

"I won't," Franky rushes to assure her. "I promise."

She's the picture of sincerity at first, but then her eyes take on a mischievous sparkle.

"But I can lay a finger on you in other ways, right?" she teases, tracing a finger tantalisingly over Bridget's stomach, and Bridget feels her muscles contract reflexively as she tries to ignore the intoxicating spark of arousal that simple gesture ignites. She instinctively glances around, because it feels like the attraction she feels for this woman is so glaringly obvious, even the junkies who are too high to remember their own names would be able to see it.

"Franky..." she says warningly, and Franky sighs like a petulant toddler, moving to a safer distance.

"You didn't mean what you said about me misinterpreting the signals, right? I mean, your interest in me isn't purely professional..." Franky asks her, and there's an underlying insecurity in her tone that gnaws away at Bridget's resolve.

She leans close, until her mouth is millimetres away from Franky's ear.

"What do you think?" she breathes in a throaty whisper, and Franky groans, moistening her lips.

"I think my parole can't come soon e-fucking-nough."


	4. Chapter 4

The hardest thing Bridget has ever had to do is sit through Franky's parole hearing and try not to look too invested in the outcome. Franky looks like a bag of nerves, like she's preparing to face a firing squad instead of the people that can offer her salvation, and there's no sign of her larger-than-life personality. Bridget smiles at her reassuringly as she takes a seat in front of the stern-looking Judge, even though her own stomach is churning with apprehension, but she can't afford to meet Franky's gaze for too long. It's not easy to drag her eyes away, though, because Franky's been permitted to dress for the occasion. She's clad in starched black trousers and a white blouse that reveals the barest hint of cleavage, and there's no sign of her colourful tats. The contours of her face seem softer, somehow, and Bridget realises it's because she's forsaken the heavy eye make-up in favour of a subtler shade. She could easily pass for a high-flying city slicker, and while that shapeless teal tracksuit never managed to detract from her attractiveness, now she looks positively arresting, and Bridget starts to feel a little flustered inside the confines of her blazer.

"So, Miss Doyle, I've read all the literature, I know you have several supporters who are campaigning for your early release - Miss Westfall here being one of them. I also have a report from the Interim Governor, Miss Bennett, who seems satisfied by your overall progress, in spite of some teething issues along the way. So, let's see if you can pull the wool over my eyes, too," the Judge says wryly. "Tell me why you think you deserve a second chance?"

Bridget hears the tremor in Franky's voice when she starts to address the parole board, but then their eyes lock for a fleeting second, and Franky seems to regain her confidence. Bridget's heard hundreds of speeches from countless inmates; she's seen full-blown waterworks, unabashed charm offensives, even some outright begging from women who were intent on convincing people that they'd changed for the better, but none of their words resonate like Franky's.

"I'm not here to tell you some sob story about how I grew up with a mother who made me feel like a worthless piece of crap, because everyone's got their own baggage to deal with, and I can't keep blaming other people for how I choose to deal with my demons. Plenty of people have a shitty upbringing, but not all of them end up in here," Franky acknowledges ruefully, ducking her head.

"Miss Doyle, from all accounts, you're an intelligent woman, so I'm sure you can state your case without the need for such colourful language," the Judge reprimands her, and Bridget bites her lip, watching Franky shift uncomfortably on her feet.

"Duly noted, your Honour," Franky replies, trying her best to look chastised, and Bridget tries not to laugh at her witty comeback.

"I tried to pick up the pieces and leave my past behind – that's why I applied to be on _Bon Appetit_ , because cooking was the one thing I thought I was good at. I felt like no-one appreciated me back then, and I guess maybe I wanted some recognition; like getting stopped by a stranger in the street would help to fill the void. I reckoned people would be patting me on the back and saying congrats on a job well done, but instead Mikey - the host – made me a laughing stock. I was the resident thicko; nothing I did was ever good enough, and it was like being back at home with Mum again, being called a useless waste of space."

Franky pauses, riding out a tumultuous gamut of emotions, and Bridget feels every one of them right along with her. She just hopes her face isn't conveying the full extent of her empathy, but thankfully, the parole board are too busy hanging on Franky's every word to pay any attention to her reaction.

"Mikey was riding my as - " Franky stops mid-sentence, hastily correcting herself, "I mean, he was on my case for weeks, playing it up for the cameras, but he wouldn't kick me off the show. He just wanted to keep me around to toy with me; said it would boost his ratings. He got inside my head, made my blood boil, and all I wanted was to shut him up. I wish I'd just settled for punching him, I wish I had that voice inside my head that said 'stop and think for a second, because this is going to stuff up the rest of your life,' but I don't even remember picking up that pan. I was so mad I just grabbed anything I could get my hands on. It could have been a rolling pin; it could have been a knife, but I…"

Franky takes a deep breath, wringing her hands together.

"I threw a pan of boiling oil in his face, and I can stand here trying to explain why, but I know it's not something I can rationalise or excuse. I watched Mikey's skin bubbling up and blistering and I tried to deal with the guilt by convincing myself that he deserved it – that there were plenty of people out there who wanted to give him his just deserts - but I'm the only nutjob who actually followed through with it," Franky admits, and her contrition is obvious. "My Mum used to burn me with cigarettes every time I said something she didn't like, and when I saw him writhing around on the floor I realised…. I realised that I was no better than her."

Franky hangs her head in shame, and Bridget swallows audibly, gripping the edges of her chair. She never thought she'd see this kind of self-awareness from Franky, this kind of brutal honesty, but the self-hatred in her tone is jarring.

"But you regret your actions now?" The Judge clarifies, and Franky nods vehemently, taking a moment to regain her composure.

"Mikey set out to rub me up the wrong way, but I completely overreacted and yeah, I'll regret it until the day I die," she says earnestly. "He said I was only capable of serving up slop and now I'm heading up the Prison kitchen. I guess you could call that poetic justice, right?" she asks, with a hollow laugh, and Bridget sees a fleeting look of sympathy on the Judge's face.

"It says here that you've been studying Law, Miss Doyle?"

"I have, your Honour," Franky confirms, looking a little thrown by the abrupt change in topic. "I've seen the justice system from the inside out and I wanted to know more about how it all works. I figured helping people is a more noble cause than being a half-baked chef. I want to make a difference; steer people along the right path, because a lot of good women end up in places like this when they have the potential to become so much more."

"And do you think you're one of them?"

Franky glances at Bridget, and Bridget gives her an encouraging nod.

"Someone once told me that I'm smart; that I'm a good person," Franky informs them, shooting a pointed look in Bridget's direction, "But there are days when I still find that hard to believe. All I can do is try. I've been working on my anger issues with Miss Westfall and I want to be better, I really do, but there's only so much I can achieve while I'm cooped up inside this hen house. I know I snap too easily, I know that I resort to violence when I should suck it up and move on, but I'm surrounded by druggies and murderers and it's a dog-eat-dog world in here, you know? You end up climbing the walls, getting claustrophobic, and it's not good for your head space. I know I never want to come back to this place, and that's all the motivation I need to change."

"And what about your support network on the outside? Are there people who can help you stay on the straight and narrow?" The Judge asks, and Franky hesitates, caught off-guard.

"I'm not sure about the straight part, your Honour, but I can definitely do the 'narrow.'"

Bridget bites back a laugh, but the Judge looks unamused by Franky's flippant response, and Franky immediately picks up on her disapproval.

Bridget desperately wants to vouch for her, but she knows what it will look like if she says she'll be checking in on Franky, even if it's just to monitor her progress. She's a therapist, not a probation officer, and the Board will expect her to sever all ties. Thankfully, Franky seems to know that, too, and even though her eyes briefly flicker towards Bridget, she quickly looks away again.

"Look, I'm not gonna lie, I don't have much in the way of family, and the people I used to call friends ran for the hills a long time ago," she confesses, and it's clear she's trying to keep her bitterness in check, "But I've got to want to do this for myself, right? I might not have kids and a husband waiting for me on the outside, but I want to do this for me. I want to be able to trust and rely on myself. Isn't that enough?"

It's the perfect response, and Bridget's heart swells with pride. Franky's nailing this hearing, and even though Bridget wishes she'd been able to engender this kind of honesty from her in their therapy sessions, Franky's leaving her pride at the door when it really counts, and her inherent likability is shining through.

"I'd like to think so, Miss Doyle," the Judge says kindly, and it's obvious that her hostility is starting to mellow.

She turns her attention to Bridget.

"Miss Westfall, is there anything you'd like to add to your report?"

Bridget spent last night preparing her own speech, trying to strike the perfect balance between being positive and emotionally detached, but after everything Franky's said here today, it doesn't seem to do her justice, so she forgoes the rehearsed version and speaks from her heart instead.

"Franky was a tough nut to crack, and it was clear she didn't want to open up to me at first, but her trust issues are understandable given her history. From our first session, I could see that there was so much more lurking behind her devil-may-care attitude, and I've continually been impressed by her insight and intelligence."

Franky turns to regard her gratefully, and Bridget can't help but smile, even though she tries to keep the fondness from seeping into her tone.

"Franky's Law tutor says that she's a natural; that she's been applying herself to her studies with enthusiasm, and I've seen a genuine shift in her outlook. She knows she's not perfect, but she's worked hard to keep her anger in check; to think about the reasons why she lashes out, and I have to admit, I've been moved by her candour with you today. It's not easy for Franky to talk about her past, but she's finally starting to let those walls down, and even though she hasn't been given much of a reason to see the good in people, I think she truly deserves a second chance. It's rare that I recommend parole without any reservations, but in this instance, it's a privilege to speak on Franky's behalf. I have every faith that she'll go on to do great things if she's afforded the opportunity."

Bridget meets Franky's attentive gaze, but has to abruptly look away again when she sees the appreciative tears brimming in the inmate's eyes.

"Thank you, Miss Westfall," The Judge concludes, turning her attention back to Franky. "And is there anything else you would like to say before we wrap things up, Miss Doyle?"

Franky bites her bottom lip, drawing in a shaky breath.

"I know you've probably heard this a thousand times before, and you're probably gonna take it with a pinch of salt because so many women who claim that they've seen the error of their ways wind up right back where they started, but I won't be one of them. I'm going to do everything in my power not to re-offend - to be the bigger person and walk away - because out there, there's still hope…"

Franky's voice wavers and Bridget's heart clenches as she watches the inmate's face start to crumple.

"But in here, I feel like all the shit that anyone ever said about me is true, and I don't want them to be right. I don't want to be good-for-nothing, lowlife scum; dead behind the eyes and angry at the world. I want more than that."

Franky's voice is barely more than a hoarse whisper now, and she uses her sleeve to mop away her tears, even as they continue to run in rivulets down her cheeks, smudging her mascara and eyeliner. Bridget can see that she's on the verge of breaking down completely, and she turns to the parole board, struggling to contain her own emotions.

"If you don't have any objections, I'd like to take Franky back to her wing now?" she asks, and she takes heart from the Judge's compassionate expression.

"Of course," The Judge concedes, and Bridget nods her thanks, moving to open the door.

"Franky," she says softly, tilting her head towards the exit, and Franky doesn't need to be told twice.

"Thank you for your time, and for giving me this opportunity," she barely manages to choke out, giving the Judge a tremulous smile, and Bridget manages to keep a professional distance until she shuts the door quietly behind them.

She lays a comforting hand on Franky's shoulder, but then she sees Vera Bennett standing guard outside, watching them reproachfully.

"How did it go, Doyle?" the Interim Governor asks, but Franky doesn't even look at her, she just stares at the floor with her arms wrapped around her waist. Vera finally seems to realise how close Franky is to falling apart, but it doesn't soften her stance.

"Can you give us a minute?" Bridget requests, but when it looks like Vera's about to object to her entreaty, her gaze hardens. "For God's sake, Vera, do you want to follow in Ferguson's footsteps and rule this place with an iron fist, or do you want to show some bloody compassion every once in a while?"

The words seem to hit home and Vera finally relents, nodding towards the door on their left.

"And it _will_ be just a minute, Miss Westfall," she warns, and Bridget nods her understanding, guiding Franky into the empty art room and shutting the door behind them.

"Franky, I know how hard it must have been for you to open up like that, but I think that balls-to-the-wall honesty just won you your freedom," she tells her with an exuberant smile, gently reaching out to smooth away the eyeliner that's streaked across Franky's tear-splattered face. "But you are _nothing_ like your mother, OK? Being systematically cruel and abusive towards an innocent child isn't remotely comparable to lashing out at an overgrown bully. You know that, right?"

Her words seem to unleash a world of hurt, and Franky lets out a keening whimper, trying to suppress a sob by pressing a shaking hand to her mouth, but Bridget pulls it away, stroking her thumb over Franky's palm. Franky looks at her then, with an expression that's weary and broken, and Bridget realises just how much of a toll reliving her past has taken on her.

The last time Franky unravelled in front of her, she sat back and did nothing, but she's not about to make the same mistake twice. She reaches out with the intention of pulling Franky into a comforting hug, but she's surprised when the inmate stiffens at her touch, backing away from her like some kind of caged animal.

"Look, I don't want your pity, OK?" Franky snaps, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, but Bridget isn't giving up that easily.

"This isn't pity," she informs Franky resolutely, and she tries again, inching an arm around the inmate's shoulders.

"Let it go, Franky," she murmurs, and Franky hesitates for a moment, before finally collapsing into her waiting arms. Bridget smooths her hand over the other woman's hair, letting her lips graze against Franky's temple as she wraps her in a warm embrace, and she doesn't plan on letting go until Vera inevitably intervenes.

"I know what this means to you, Franky, but you were amazing in there. You're going to make one hell of a lawyer," she whispers into the younger woman's ear, and Franky tightens her grip on Bridget's waist, clinging to her convulsively.

"You're so wary of letting anyone see how much you're hurting, but crying doesn't make you weak, it makes you human," Bridget assures her, and Franky finally stops trying to fight a losing battle.

She buries her face in the crook of Bridget's shoulder, and her shoulders start to shake with heaving sobs. She's crying for a father that didn't love her enough to stick around, for a mother who heartlessly blamed her for things that were beyond her control; lamenting over lost time and mistakes that she'll never be able to rectify. As Franky weeps over the desolate wasteland of her life, Bridget prays to every God in the universe that she won't have to suffer any more than she already has.

She holds Franky a little tighter, pressing her face into the inmate's neck, and tries to anchor her in the moment instead of letting her get swept away in a sea of bad memories.

When Vera sticks her head around the door a few moments later, Franky's too inconsolable to notice. Bridget reluctantly moves to pull away, knowing how this must look to the prison officer who's always been suspicious about the nature of their relationship anyway, but Vera clearly wasn't expecting to see Wentworth's most hardened inmate wracked with guilt and grief. Vera studies Franky with concern, and then she shoots Bridget a look of grudging understanding, turning on her heel and closing the door behind her.

Bridget inwardly breathes a sigh of relief, stroking her hand over the muscled planes of Franky's back. She closes her eyes for a second, trying to commit every detail to memory; the scent of Franky's shampoo, the heat of her touch, but when she feels Franky's tears soaking through her shirt and pooling in her clavicle, her throat works overtime as she fights to retain her own composure.

"It's OK," she soothes, holding fast until Franky's sobs become more sporadic and her desperate grip starts to relax a little.

"What happened to the patient-therapist code of conduct?" the inmate eventually mumbles into her shoulder, and Bridget pulls back a little, smiling at her affectionately.

"Come on Franky, I'm not made of stone," she retorts, and Franky gives an embarrassed laugh, wiping her face with her sodden sleeve.

"I must look real attractive right now, huh?" she says self-consciously, and Bridget reaches for her handbag, pulling out a pocket-size pack of tissues and tossing them to her.

"Today's been an emotional roller coaster. The dam's got to burst at some point."

"C'mon, spare me the shrink speak, Gidge."

"OK, fine, you look like Alice Cooper after a major blowout. Happy now?" Bridget jokes, and it's worth it, because Franky's downcast expression is suddenly rejuvenated by a warm grin.

"So basically you're saying I'm a hot mess?"

Bridget rolls her eyes, laughing as she ushers Franky towards the door.

"Miss Bennett's imagination is probably already working overtime, so I'm not adding fuel to the fire," she says wryly, but Franky tugs lightly on her arm, holding her in place.

"Gidget?" she asks softly, and Bridget turns to face her with an inquisitive expression.

She's not expecting the kiss, but she barely has time to react to the sensation of Franky's lips brushing sweetly against her own before the inmate pulls away again.

"You're one in a million," Franky tells her, and her eyes are shining with sincerity.

Bridget opens her mouth to speak, but no words seem to come out, so she just nods, running her hand over Franky's arm. She knows she should chastise Franky for towing the line that she's painstakingly tried to draw in the sand, but her heart's clamouring in her ears and her stomach's turning somersaults, and she knows it's only a matter of time before the tide washes it away completely.


	5. Chapter 5

_**I just want to say a huge thank you to everyone who's taken the time to comment on this fic so far. I'm really grateful for your feedback and I'm so glad you seem to enjoy reading this little Fridget saga as much as I relish writing it! I wish I had the time to respond to everyone individually, but my work schedule barely leaves me with enough time to write, let alone anything else. Just know that I appreciate every word that's thrown my way. Have a fantastic weekend, folks!**_

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Ferguson never gave Bridget the autonomy to implement her own ideas, she always had to work within the confines of the system, and with a boss who thought anti-recidivism programs were a pointless exercise in idealism, Bridget's options used to be limited. Thankfully, Vera's a lot more receptive to her powers of persuasion. Bridget knows that some of the women shy away from discussing their problems in group therapy sessions because they don't want to air their dirty laundry in public, and she also understands that the prospect of an hour long one-to-one session can be pretty intimidating for inmates who are used to repressing their feelings instead of confronting them. Some of the prisoners just don't want to dig any deeper than they have to, but they still need an outlet, and that's why she comes up with the idea of an informal drop-in centre, where the women can swing by to discuss their problems during their recreational time. There's no pressure, no obligation, no deep psychoanalysis – Bridget just wants to give them the opportunity to talk through their issues, even if she ends up being nothing more than a sounding board.

At first, her clients are few and far between, but as word spreads, she has a steady stream of inmates filing in and out of her office. Some just waste her time with trivial crap, and she hears tales of bickering and back-stabbing that wouldn't look out of place in a high school playground, but every now and again, a woman in genuine need comes along and Bridget feels like she's actually making a difference.

Of course, Franky takes full advantage of her "all inmates welcome" policy and shows up during every session with an amusing anecdote that seems purposely designed to make Bridget blush to the roots of her hair.

" _Doc, I think I'm in love, but I'm not sure if the other chick feels the same way. What do you reckon I should do?"_

" _Doc, my fuck buddy's in the psych ward and my ex needs to be committed. I haven't had any action in months. Any suggestions?"_

It's getting harder to cling to some semblance of professional decorum, but Bridget has to try her damnedest not to show how entertained she is by Franky's antics, and frequently has to resort to ordering her out of her office, albeit as good-naturedly as possible. Still, Franky's nothing if not persistent.

Today, she seems to have come up with a new ploy, and Bridget starts to laugh when she sees a food trolley come to a grinding halt outside of her door.

"Meals on wheels!" Franky exclaims with a devilish grin, and Bridget rolls her eyes, although she can't help but think how endearing Franky looks in an apron and cap.

"That's funny, because I don't recall ordering anything," she says drolly, and Franky affects a look of surprise.

"Really? 'Cos I've got it right here on my rosta: Bridget Westfall - Chef's Special. Now it's not exactly gourmet grub, but this time I _can_ promise I didn't gob in it."

Franky unveils an elaborately garnished sandwich and Bridget has to admit, it does look pretty appetising, in spite of its origins. She grudgingly reaches for the plate, and Franky grins triumphantly.

"Can't have you wasting away in here listening to Tina complaining about how much she misses her whiny little brats," she declares, with a shameless wink. "I'll come back for the plate later."

Bridget's not sure how to handle all of this blatant flirtation. If it was anyone else, she'd shut it down without thinking twice, but Franky's not doing anything wrong, per se, and she can't deny that she's enjoying the banter. Besides, Franky has been through so much emotional turmoil lately, seeing her in such an upbeat mood makes a heart-warming change.

"Thank you, Franky, that's very...thoughtful," she eventually concedes, as primly as she can manage to, but she can't hide her delighted smile, and Franky's never had any difficulty in reading between the lines.

Bridget savours every last bite of her sandwich, but when Kim Chang darkens her doorway just after lunch, her good mood instantly evaporates.

"Kim, what can I do for you?" she asks, trying to keep the wariness out of her tone, but it's hard when the diminutive woman is glowering at her with an intensity that she can feel from ten feet away.

"I don't know, Miss Westfall, I just seem to have a lot of rage lately, you know?" Kim professes, flopping down onto the chair that's positioned directly opposite Bridget.

She slouches against the back rest and props her feet up on the coffee table, showing her contempt for Bridget's authority, but Bridget isn't about to give her the satisfaction of objecting. She knows Kim's impromptu appearance can't herald anything good, though, and sure enough, it's only a matter of seconds before the younger woman is embarking on an embittered rant.

"You see, I had this amazing girlfriend, and we were fucking great together. Even when someone else caught her eye, she'd always come back to me in the end. I would've done anything for her, too. I even got myself thrown back in here so we could start hooking up again, but then when I tried to make a move on her, she acted like I was fucking contagious or something. She wouldn't let me lay a finger on her."

Bridget hates herself for feeling a thrill of relief at Kim's words, because if she was the impartial therapist she strives to be, Franky's sex life would be none of her concern. She tries to maintain a neutral expression, even though she's more interested in what Kim has to say than she's willing to admit, and then she takes a moment to carefully consider her next words.

"That must have been hard for you."

She settles for a non-committal but compassionate response, and yet Kim looks at her like she's purposely trying to rub salt into the wound.

"Yeah, no kidding," she replies sarcastically. "I thought she loved me, but she told me she wasn't into me anymore - after I gave her all of my rent money so she could pay off some druggies who wanted her dead. I mean, where's the fucking appreciation?"

Bridget remembers Franky tearing the library apart, risking everything to purposely antagonise the POs, and she wonders if that's the reason why; if Franky wanted to be slotted to save her own skin.

"Love can't be bought, Kim," Bridget reminds her, as gently as possible, "But you've got every right to feel angry. It's not easy when there's an uneven power balance in a relationship, and it's not nice when we realise we care about somebody more than they seem to care about us."

Kim's eyes flash with renewed ire.

"It's _not nice_ when you realise that you've been used, either. I should've known that she was just playing me, but she made me feel like I was special, you know? And the sex was sooo good. Nobody's ever made me come that hard before."

Bridget's eyes widen a little, and she shifts uncomfortably in her chair. "Kim, I really don't think that's appropriate - "

"But don't you want to know what you're missing out on? Or, should I say, what you've got to look forward to?" Kim interjects, and there's a vindictive twinkle in her eyes. "There's this thing she does with her tongue and _fuck_ , it's - "

"Kim, that's enough!" Bridget says sharply, and the inmate regards her with cold eyes.

"What's wrong? You're not jealous are you, Miss Westfall?" she taunts, and she doesn't even give Bridget the opportunity to deny her accusation before she resumes her gloating, "Because you should be. Me and Jodie, we're the type that Franky goes for, but you.. you're just a washed-up old hag. Your neck's all wrinkly and your hair's all dry and I bet you look like road kill without any make-up on."

"OK, that's it," Bridget says lowly, "There's no need to get personal, Kim. You obviously came here hoping to take a few pot shots at me, but if you were expecting me to rise to the bait, then think again. I'm here to help the women, not to tread on your toes, but if you're incapable of discussing your problems like a civilised adult, then you can get the hell out of my office. "

"Awww, the truth hurts, doesn't it?" Kim retaliates, and she shows no signs of getting up from her chair. "I'm telling you, there's no way Franky's going to be into you once she gets out of here. One night in a dyke bar and she'll be going home with someone way hotter and way younger than you. She's just bored, that's all," Kim informs her spitefully, and even for someone as self-confident as Bridget, the words sting more than they probably should.

"OK, Kim, it's time for you to leave," she reiterates firmly, gesturing towards the door. "I'm sorry that things didn't work out the way you wanted them to, and I know it's not easy when you want to be with someone you can't have, but YOU are in control of your own life and your own emotions, so stop letting other people dictate your sense of self worth. It's not Franky's fault that you gave up your freedom for her and it's not healthy to dwell on what will never be. If you let someone else define whether you're happy, or angry, or sad, then you're never going to feel at peace with yourself."

"You've got some fucking nerve," Kim informs her angrily, "Me and Franky would still be together if you didn't screw everything up. So what's your deal, Miss Westfall? Are you too ugly to get someone on the outside so you have to resort to shagging the women in here? Because that's pretty fucking desperate."

Bridget heaves an exasperated sigh, feeling her patience starting to wane.

"Kim, I don't know how many times I have to tell you this, but Franky and I aren't engaged in a sexual relationship - and I have no idea why you're intent on convincing yourself otherwise."

"Then why did she slap the shit out of me for starting the rumours?" Kim retorts, and Bridget raises her eyebrows, because that's one altercation she didn't know about.

"And you're not the first, you know?" Kim hastens to inform her, and it's obvious that she intends to keep delivering blows until Bridget really starts to feel them. "Franky had something going on with Miss Davidson, too. She gets a kick out of getting you prissy cows to drop your pants and go at it like bitches in heat. It doesn't mean she gives a flying fuck about you, she just likes the challenge, that's all."

Bridget tries not to react to that revelation, reminding herself that Kim is spouting whatever tripe she thinks will hurt her the most.

"You claim that you love Franky, Kim, but you've spent the last ten minutes trying to denigrate her character. If she's so fickle and manipulative, then why are you wasting your time agonising over her?"

Bridget opens the door for Kim, and tries to contain her revulsion when the inmate unexpectedly spits in her face.

"Fuck you," Kim hisses, and her voice is pure venom.

"Get out of here Chang, _right now_ , or I'll call an Officer to come and remove you," Bridget warns her, grimacing as she wipes the glob of muck off her face, but Kim snorts disparagingly.

"Make me," she demands, and Bridget has visions of a frilled-neck lizard gearing up for an attack when Kim invades her personal space, glaring up at her.

"OK, that's it," she declares, trying not to show how discombobulated she is as she makes her way towards the phone, but she gasps when Kim unceremoniously snatches it out of her hands.

"Don't threaten me, you scrawny bitch," Kim yells, slamming the receiver back into its cradle. She rams her hands into Bridget's chest, forcefully pushing her against the desk, and for a moment Bridget's too shocked to react. She feels the solid wood colliding with her lower back, and knows it will leave one hell of a bruise in its wake.

"For God's sake, Kim, grow up," she protests, reaching for the phone again, but her mouth drops open in disbelief when Kim grabs a fistful of her hair, dragging her away from the desk. Bridget's eyes start to water at the startling burst of pain, and she stops trying to take the higher ground, whirling around to face her pint-sized nemesis. She grabs Kim's hand, prising her fingers open and bending them backwards until Kim lets out a yelp of pain, yanking her arm away.

"I'm going to give you one last chance," Bridget informs her magnanimously, "But if you don't walk away right now, your extra three months are about to become an extra three years."

"You want Franky so bad? Then fight me for her," Kim declares, undeterred, and her ultimatum is so ludicrous, Bridget reacts in the worst way possible.

Nervous laughter starts to bubble up in her throat, and she can't stop it from escaping, but of course it only succeeds in incensing Kim more. In the blink of an eye, Kim's flying at her like a bat out of hell, scratching at her face and clawing at her clothes, until Bridget makes a grab for her forearms, forcibly restraining her. It's not easy, because the other woman is a snarling ball of rage intent on inflicting as much damage as she possibly can, but Bridget's height and weight give her a much-needed advantage and she struggles to keep Kim's flailing arms at bay.

"Come on, you titless wonder, is that all you've got?" Kim mocks, and Bridget realises that Kim has somehow managed to rip open her blouse, leaving her chest and stomach exposed, save for her bra and a couple of scraps of shredded fabric. The younger woman isn't showing any signs of backing down and for one terrifying moment, Bridget thinks that she's going to have to resort to bar room brawl tactics, but the prospect of punching another woman in the face is horrifying, even if Kim clearly doesn't share her reservations. She thinks about screaming for help, but she knows how weak that will look, and she doesn't want Kim to realise how vulnerable she's feeling right now.

"What the fuck?"

Bridget doesn't hear Franky enter the room, but her exclamation of disbelief reverberates around the office, and Bridget watches the colour drain from Kim's startled face. The younger girl immediately lets go of her, and then she turns to run, but Franky blocks her exit, corralling her against the wall.

"Did you touch her?" Franky demands, and Kim looks terrified when the other inmate grabs her by the throat, shaking her like a rag doll. "I said, _did you fucking touch her?"_

"Franky, don't give her the satisfaction," Bridget urges, because the murderous expression on Franky's face frightens the hell out of her. For one paralysing second, she thinks Franky isn't going to listen to her, but then Franky pushes Kim towards the door, finally offering her her freedom.

"Gidget's right. You're not worth it," she tells Kim, and her features are twisted with disgust. "You're pathetic."

" _I'm_ pathetic?" Kim scoffs incredulously. "Look at you, doing whatever your mistress tells you to do. The Franky I know wouldn't take shit from anyone, but now you're acting like a fucking lapdog. She's really brought you to heel, hasn't she? I don't even recognise you anymore."

"You need to shut the fuck up!" Franky warns her, jabbing a cautionary finger in Kim's direction, but then she turns to Bridget and her expression softens almost instantly.

"Are you OK?" she asks worriedly, and Bridget tries not to melt into Franky's touch when the inmate crosses the room to stand by her side, running a finger over the spot where Kim's nails sank into her cheek. The adrenaline rush kept her from feeling the pain, but now it's starting to subside and her face is smarting like hell, even though Franky's concerned ministrations feel like a much-needed salve.

She nods, but she opts not to verbalise a response when she realises how dangerously close she is to tears. There's no way in hell she's letting Kim Chang see her cry, though. She tugs self-consciously on her ruined shirt, trying to cover herself as best she can, and she's half-expecting Franky to make some kind of crack about finally getting to see her rack, but instead the inmate retrieves her leather jacket from the back of her chair, draping it over her shoulders.

"Here, put this on," she says quietly, and she eases Bridget's dishevelled hair from underneath the collar, gently tucking it behind her ears. Bridget fumbles with the zipper, but her hands are shaking too much to find the biting point, so Franky reaches out, fastening the jacket for her. There's a moment where her fingers brush against bare skin, inches away from her breasts, and Bridget sucks in a sharp breath, biting her lip. She sees Franky's eyes dart over her physique, but then she hastily looks up again, meeting Bridget's gaze with a look of pained longing.

They don't even realise that Kim's still in the room until she squawks from her vantage point, "Oh my God, I thought you were just messing with her head, but you fucking love her, don't you?"

Franky whirls around, and Bridget can see that she's on the verge of saying something stupid, something that will land them both in a whole heap of trouble, and Bridget can't afford to hear it...not here, not yet.

"Get out of my office!" she barks at Kim, and her voice is shaking with anger, "And make the most of the next hour, Kim, because when I finish writing up my incident report, you're not going to see the light of day for weeks."

Kim's openly crying now, and she turns to regard Franky with doleful eyes. "Just tell me, Franks, what's she got that I haven't, huh?"

"Where do you want me to start?" Franky retorts, but then the cruel edge to her tone gives way to something kinder. "Just give it up Kim. You're acting like a crazy bitch. I've moved on, and so should you."

"Fine," Kim spits out, swiping angrily at her eyes. "Just don't come crying to me when this scrag decides that she's done slumming it and hangs you out to dry."

"Don't flatter yourself. I wouldn't touch you again if you paid me, you fucking bunny boiler."

Kim looks like she's poised to strike back, but then her vitriolic expression gives way to wounded pride and she storms out of Bridget's office, slamming the door loudly behind her.

Bridget feels her whole body deflate, and it's only then that she realises she's spent the last fifteen minutes on tenterhooks.

"Fucking hell Franky, you really know how to pick 'em, don't you?"

Franky looks a little sheepish. "I swear, she used to be a sweetheart. I don't know what the hell happened."

"You broke her heart," Bridget says matter-of-factly, "And I just found out first-hand that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned."

"Did she hurt you?" Franky asks anxiously, but Bridget doesn't respond, because she knows answering in the affirmative will send Franky spiralling into another vengeful rage.

"I need to call Miss Bennett and tell her what's happened," she says distractedly, turning away from Franky's distressed gaze. She can't control her sharp intake of breath when her back twinges at the sudden movement, though, and Franky's concern is instantly re-ignited.

"Gidget?"

"Don't worry about it," Bridget says dismissively, reaching for the phone, but Franky covers her hand, holding it in place.

"Let me see."

Before Bridget even has a chance to react, Franky's delicately edging up the hem of her jacket to examine her back, and judging from the inmate's muttered curse, what she sees there isn't good. Still, with Franky's fingers tentatively exploring her bare skin, the ache Bridget's feeling definitely isn't one of pain.

"I'm gonna kill her," Franky vows, and Bridget signs resignedly.

"So after all this time, violence is still the solution to all of your problems?" she parries, and there's a part of her that wonders if Franky really has changed.

"Whoah, don't get your knickers in a twist. I was speaking figuratively, OK? I just hate that she took her crap out on you, when it should have been me."

"I'm a big girl, Franky, I don't need you to protect me."

"Fine!" Franky snaps, folding her arms defensively, "Sorry for caring."

"Did you 'care' about Erica Davidson?" Bridget blurts out, and she instantly regrets opening that can of worms when she sees the stricken look on Franky's face.

"Is that what Kim told you? That me and Erica had a thing?" Franky demands, and she looks like she wants to pummel Kim all over again.

"Well, did you?" Bridget asks, hoping that she sounds mildly curious instead of intrusive, "You can't blame me for wondering, Franky. I mean, another woman in a position of power, trying to help you better yourself - "

"Like I'm fucking damaged goods?" Franky retaliates in an accusatory tone, and Bridget sees the flash of hurt in the inmate's eyes before her face sets in a stony mask.

"No, that's not what I meant," she hastens to reassure her, but Franky doesn't look convinced. She snatches the plate off Bridget's desk, abruptly heading for the door.

"You should get Miss Atkins to take a look at your back," she says flatly, but Bridget can't just stand back and watch her go.

"Franky, wait!" she implores, scrubbing her face with her hands as she heaves a weary sigh. "Look, I'm sorry, OK, but I've just spent the past fifteen minutes listening to your ex-girlfriend telling me that you'll never be attracted to an old hag like me and that I'm road kill by your usual standards, so how about you cut me some slack, yeah?"

"Steady on there, Gidge, it's starting to sound like you actually have feelings of your own instead of spending all your time analysing everyone else's."

Bridget smiles wryly. "Against my better judgement... I guess it got under my skin a little," she admits, and her heart skitters inside her chest when Franky moves closer.

"Well, don't let it," the inmate informs her resolutely, and Bridget's hands start to sweat when Franky lovingly cups her face in her hands, "Because you're gorgeous."

"Franky..." Bridget whispers, but it sounds more like a plea than a warning, and Franky leans even closer still, stroking her fingers over Bridget's cheeks.

"Yes, I had feelings for Erica," she admits, but then her voice catches in her throat, "But they were nothing... _nothing_ compared to what I feel for you, OK?"

Franky's lips are inches away from her own, and Bridget allows herself to fleetingly run her hand over the curve of the inmate's hip before she summons all of her willpower and reluctantly backs away.

Franky lets out a guttural groan. "Come on, Gidget, this is torture. You're giving me a serious case of blue balls here."

"I know," Bridget agrees, and she can still feel the lingering heat of Franky's proximity and the rush of arousal pulsating through her veins, "But that letter's gonna be arriving any day, yeah?"

"They could deliver it by fucking Concorde and it still wouldn't be quick enough."

Bridget bursts out laughing, but Franky looks less than amused.

"I don't get it, Gidge, you're screwing me in mind, if not in deed, and I'm pretty sure that already contravenes most of the clauses in that little rule book of yours, so why not just throw caution to the wind?"

"Because feeling something and acting on it are two completely different things," Bridget reminds the inmate, "And you of all people should understand the importance of exercising some self-restraint."

"And what if I don't get out of here?" Franky challenges her, raising her eyebrows defiantly, "What are you gonna do then?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

It's a feeble response, and Franky knows it.

"You can cross the fucking bridge if you want," Franky acknowledges gravely, "But I'll be jumping off it."


	6. Chapter 6

After two weeks and no news from the parole board, Franky's starting to fear the worst. If she has to spend another year being a slave to routine, they may as well give her a lobotomy, because all of this dumbed-down interaction is driving her bat-shit crazy. She's tired of the inane conversations and the same old drama, day in and day out, and even her Law degree is starting to lose its novelty. She's been dreaming of going up against a hot-shot barrister in court, winning a high-profile human rights case with lots of press coverage, but in reality she gets to hone her debating skills on a bunch of women who barely have two brain cells to rub together. What's the point in having a thirst for knowledge when she's just pissing it all away? And where's the acclaim in being top of the class when she's the only fucking person taking the course? Her tutor hasn't cracked a smile since she met him and his teaching technique is so bland, she may as well be reading straight from a text book. The ache to be able to do what she wants, when she wants, is overwhelming, and she wonders when this place will succeed in beating the last vestiges of spontaneity out of her.

Gidget's the only person who offers her a break from the monotony; the only person she can have an intelligent conversation with, and Franky craves her company almost as much as she craves her freedom. Franky's forgotten what it's like to be kept on her toes, to cultivate comebacks that don't involve hurling insults or making a crack at someone else's expense, but Gidget engages with her like what she has to say actually matters, and Franky hasn't felt like that for a long time. She's served her sentence, every agonising hour at a time, but every day she goes without speaking to Gidget feels like she's starting from scratch. She misses their sessions, and now she regrets all the time she spent ducking and diving and evading Gidget's questions, sitting in sullen silence to prevent her from scratching below the surface. She knows she has enough issues to make every shrink cream their pants, but she didn't want Gidget to see her as a patient, because there's nothing sexy about being a victim, and nobody wants to fuck the girl who's sobbing inconsolably in the shower.

Franky sighs, wondering what she's supposed to do with her life once she's read every book in the library and pumped enough iron to cross over into tranny territory. Even getting herself off is a chore nowadays, and as much as she likes to fantasise about all the things she yearns to do to Gidget – at least her imagination is still pretty vivid in that respect - it's still no substitute for the real thing. And people blame her for picking fights just to spice things up a bit?

Franky sighs resignedly, reaching for her Contract & Tort notes that are lying face down on the bottom of her bed. She barely manages to skim read through a couple of pages before a knock sounds on her cell door, and she raises an eyebrow, because the POs aren't renowned for their courtesy and most of the inmates don't wait for her acknowledgement before they barge in.

"Yeah?" she yells, and she nearly rolls off her bed in surprise when Bridget cautiously sticks her head around the door.

"You doing home visits now, Doc?" Franky teases, allowing a shit-eating grin to spread across her face, even though it barely manages to convey her delight at seeing the older woman, "Or have you finally decided to stop being such a prude and let me have my wicked way with you? I just hope you're not a screamer, because these walls definitely do talk... in surround sound."

"Franky!" Bridget protests, but she's laughing, and Franky's eyes crinkle at the corners as she realises just how much she enjoys making the other woman smile. It's a welcome change from doling out brutal paybacks and punishments, anyway, even if she never really had the stomach for inflicting them herself.

"Well, welcome to my humble abode, Gidge. As you can see, I'm currently reclining on a luxurious four-poster bed - complete with orthopaedic mattress - and just to the right, you'll find the bathroom suite, which I'm now really grateful I didn't have to use this morning."

"I love what you've done with the place," Bridget says wryly, casting her eyes over the lesbian erotica adorning the bulletin board on the far wall. She unconsciously licks her lips, and Franky can barely contain her amusement.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer."

Bridget abruptly wrenches her eyes away, and Franky's obnoxious smile widens even further when she sees that the therapist's cheeks are tinged with a rosy glow.

"So, what can I do for you, Doc?" she asks, wiggling her eyebrows up and down suggestively, but Bridget makes a concerted effort to ignore her proposition, reaching into her hand-bag to extract a slim envelope.

"I've got something for you," she announces, regarding Franky with sparkling eyes. "I think it arrived by carrier pigeon instead of Concorde, but at least it's finally here."

Franky's heart stops dead in her chest, and then begins thrumming ten-fold.

"So, what's the verdict?" she asks cautiously, chewing her fingernails in a futile attempt to alleviate her apprehension.

"Why don't you open it and find out?" Bridget urges, and she reaches across the space between them, handing the envelope to Franky.

Franky gingerly takes it from her, staring at the letter like it holds the keys to the kingdom, and she's so caught up in the throes of terrified anticipation, she barely notices when Bridget moves to sit on the edge of her bed. It takes her several moments to work up the courage to delve into the envelope – which has already been opened by one of the POs - and her hands are trembling as she slowly unravels the contents.

"Gidget - " she whispers, hardly daring to hope, and Bridget moves closer, leaning over Franky's shoulder so that they can read her fortune together. Franky gets the impression that the other woman's proximity is more for moral support than anything else, because it's obvious that Bridget already knows the fate that's about to befall her, and Franky doesn't appreciate her dragging out the suspense.

"Come on Gidget, what are you fucking waiting for? A drum roll? Just tell me if I'm getting out of here or not!"

"You've waited for this moment for a long time, Franky, and there's no way I'm stealing it away from you," Bridget informs her quietly, "So will you please just read the bloody letter?"

Franky takes a deep breath, and the piece of paper that she's holding is already starting to wilt in her clammy grasp. Then, with one final anxious glance at Bridget, she starts to read.

" _Further to your recent parole hearing of 26th June 2015, we are pleased to advise you that your petition for early release has been granted by Judge Dana Burns. We would like to take this opportunity to congratulate you on your good behaviour and achievements to date and hope you will continue to honour the conditions of your parole, which are detailed more comprehensively overleaf. You will be released from custody on Friday 10th July 2015 and, in the meantime, we would strongly suggest that you liaise with your Parole Officer to ensure your re-integration into the local community is as seamless as possible. Arrangements can be made for you to stay at a halfway house if required, but in any event, you will need to provide a forwarding address and phone number for the benefit of your Parole Officer. Needless to say, if you breach the terms of your parole, you are likely to face automatic re-incarceration, but we hope this scenario never arises and wish you the best of luck in your future endeavours."_

Franky stares at the letter unseeingly for a moment, and she has to re-read it three times before she finally manages to ingest the contents. She's paralysed with shock, because nothing good ever happens to her – and when the other shoe inevitably drops, it usually smacks her straight in the fucking face. For several seconds, all she can hear is her heartbeat clamouring in her ears,and she's half expecting The Freak to barge through the door shouting, _"Gotcha!"_

"Vera told me the good news this morning and I managed to persuade her to let me hand-deliver the letter. I told her it would be a lot for you to process and you might need to... Franky?" Bridget asks uncertainly, and Franky realises that somewhere along the line, she's zoned out completely.

"Sorry," she says, shaking her head in an attempt to snap out of whatever alternate reality she's currently inhabiting, because this is all starting to feel like some kind of idyllic daydream that she's desperately trying to cling on to, even as she can sense it slipping away.

"Franky," Bridget says softly, and Franky looks down to find the therapist's hand resting on her knee. "You did it. You're getting out of here. Two more weeks, and you'll be a free woman."

Franky can feel the tears starting to prick at her eyes and tighten around her throat, but she steadfastly blinks them away, determined not to let Bridget see her break down again.

"This is for real?" she asks falteringly, but it's more to convince herself than anyone else.

"Yeah, it's for real," Bridget assures her, reaching out to gently prise the letter out of her hands. It's only then that Franky realises she was gripping it so tightly, she was on the verge of scrunching it up completely.

"Do I need to pinch you or something?" Bridget offers with a wry smile, but she settles for bumping Franky's shoulder companionably instead.

Franky smiles a little at that, but when she meets Bridget's attentive gaze, she realises the other woman's face is taut with concern.

"What is it?" Bridget asks her quietly, and because her tone sounds more like a lover's than a therapist's, Franky finally decides to be honest with her.

"I just feel like if I let myself be happy - even for a minute – someone's gonna come in and snatch it all away from me again, and I don't... I don't know how much more disappointment I can take," she confesses, ducking her head, but Bridget slides an arm around her waist, giving her a gentle squeeze.

"Not this time, OK?" she vows, and she sounds so steadfast in her certainty, Franky almost dares to believe her. For the first time in a long time, a flicker of hope starts to kindle inside her chest, and this time, she doesn't fight to suppress it.

She reaches for Gidget's hand, tracing her fingers over the therapist's slender wrist.

"Your report really swung things in my favour," she acknowledges, and she hopes her earnest expression goes some way to conveying her gratitude. "I couldn't have done any of this without you, Gidget."

Bridget looks at her intently for a moment, and Franky bites her lip when she realises the therapist's eyes are shining with unshed tears. For one heart-stopping moment, she thinks Bridget might finally stop swimming against the current that's flowing ferociously between them, but then the other woman seems to snap out of her reverie, breaking into a good-natured grin.

"Then do me a favour," she proclaims unexpectedly, and Franky gives her a curious look, "Crack a fucking smile, would you?"

"OK, OK! Jeez," Franky concedes, dissolving into laugher, but Bridget still doesn't look fully appeased.

"What? You want me to jump up and down, too?" Franky asks, and she catapults off the bed, doing a goofy imitation of a fist-pumping victory dance.

Bridget looks thoroughly entertained, until Franky's movements become decidedly more provocative and she starts to sway her hips sensuously in Bridget's direction. Feeling emboldened by the unchecked desire in the therapist's gaze, Franky makes a move to straddle Bridget's lap, but the older woman clears her throat, hastily scrambling to her feet.

"Franky..."

"Yeah, I know, I know, I have to keep it PG-13. You really know how to rain on a girl's parade, don't cha?"

Franky sighs, regarding the therapist with puppy-dog eyes. "Do I at least get a congratulatory hug?" she asks, holding out her arms expectantly, and she watches Bridget have some kind of heated internal debate before she finally steps into her embrace.

Franky squeezes her eyes shut when Bridget's arms encircle her waist, and she breathes in the therapist's subtle perfume, making a little noise of contentment.

"I can't believe I'm actually getting out of this place," she proclaims, finally giving in to a heady sense of wonderment.

She impulsively lifts Bridget off the floor, breaking into a cheek-splitting smile as she spins her around in a dizzying circle. Bridget squawks her protests, but she's laughing at the same time, and when Franky sets her back down again, she doesn't make any move to pull away.

"I'm so happy for you, Franky," she says warmly, lightly squeezing the inmate's arms, "Nobody deserves this more than you do."

"Then I reckon you must be biased," Franky observes, and Bridget feigns offence.

"I'll have you know I pride myself on my objectivity."

"Yeah? So what went wrong?"

"I met you," Bridget retorts drily, but she's smiling as she lays a hand on Franky's chest, just above her heart. "I'll see you later, yeah?"

"I'm counting down the hours," Franky reminds her, "All three hundred and thirty six of them."

Bridget turns around to face her before she moves to open the door, levelling Franky with a sultry smile. "Me, too."

* * *

"Miss Westfall, I see you've submitted a holiday request for Friday 10th July," Vera informs her conversationally, and Bridget does her level best to maintain an indifferent expression.

"Yeah, the weather's supposed to be nice; I thought I'd drive up to the beach and make a long weekend of it," she says, and Vera regards her suspiciously.

"But isn't that the day Franky Doyle's due to be released? It's a bit of a...fortunate coincidence, don't you think?"

Bridget hopes her discomfort isn't as obvious as it feels, but when Vera starts to smirk, she realises that she's become painfully transparent. Still, she isn't about to let the younger woman stand in the way of her plans, and after hearing the aching vulnerability in Franky's voice when she finally let down her guard and confessed that she wanted to be picked up by a hot girl, in a hot car, and driven off into the sunset, Bridget has every intention of making her fantasy become a reality.

"What exactly are you insinuating, Vera?" she counters, hoping that the Governor's tendency to shy away from direct confrontation will work in her favour.

"I had to review all of the staff's personnel records when I took over from Miss Ferguson. You indicated that you were a lesbian in the Equality & Diversity survey you completed during your induction," Vera observes, and Bridget laughs disparagingly.

"So naturally it follows that I'm attracted to every lesbian that crosses my path? Maybe I'll try my luck with 'Juicy Lucy' next time," Bridget says sardonically, but Vera doesn't bat an eyelid at her sarcasm.

"I saw you two embracing after Doyle's parole hearing. You can't tell me that was professional concern."

"No, that was empathy, and if you thought otherwise, then why didn't you intervene at the time?" Bridget challenges her, and Vera regards her curiously.

"Look, there's no denying that you've been a good influence on Doyle, we've all seen the change in her behaviour - "

"So what's the problem?" Bridget interjects, and Vera regards her with discerning eyes.

"The problem is that your relationship isn't strictly platonic. The inmates have noticed it, _I've_ noticed it - "

"Vera, I don't know how many times I have to tell you this, but I have not - nor would I ever – engage in a sexual relationship with someone under my charge. Yes, I care about Franky, and yes, I'm thrilled that she's been granted parole, but everything I've done for her has been borne of a genuine belief that she deserves a clean slate and the chance to fulfil her potential, not because I'm harbouring the secret desire to get into her pants."

"And after she leaves?" Vera ventures, regarding Bridget with a knowing smile.

"With all due respect, Governor, what I do outside of this establishment is none of your business," Bridget informs her flatly.

"So, you don't deny that you intend to pursue your relationship with Doyle when you're free to do so?" the Governor presses, in a triumphant tone.

Bridget remains silent, refusing to negate or corroborate Vera's assertion.

"Haven't you thought about how that's going to look to the Board?" Vera asks her, raising her eyebrows pointedly. "Aren't you worried that it's going to undermine your professional credibility?"

"Why? Do you have a problem with my performance, Vera?" Bridget counters, regarding the other woman with her chin raised defiantly. "I mean, I like to think I'm more of a help than a hindrance to the women, but have I ever given you any reason to doubt my ability?"

Vera looks taken aback for a moment, but then she slowly shakes her head. "No, but - "

"But what? You stood back and watched Ferguson abuse her authority for over a year and didn't say a word to anyone; you watched her destroy these women in the most cruel and insidious ways possible, and now you want to take me to task for caring too much? For trying to help someone who's been through hell?"

"You know that's not the issue at hand. We're not supposed to be playing favourites, Miss Westfall, but everyone knows that Franky Doyle is your protege," Vera points out. "They think she got parole because of her relationship with you, not because she earned it, and what kind of message do you think that sends to the other women?"

"I'd hoped Franky's release would inspire the other women; encourage them to re-evaluate their own situations and strive for something better - "

"Then maybe Miss Ferguson was right about one thing. You are incredibly naive," Vera observes, but then her expression seems to soften slightly. "I'll grant your leave request on this occasion, Miss Westfall, but if I _ever_ catch you in a compromising position with Doyle - "

"You won't," Bridget assures her, grateful that Vera can't see the beads of sweat that are trickling down her back in the wake of her unexpected interrogation.

She turns on her heel, ready to walk away with as much dignity as she can muster, but she stops in her tracks when she hears someone frantically screaming for help. It takes her a moment to recognise Sue Jenkins' hoarse voice, because it's distorted by alarm, but when the word "Franky" registers amongst Boomer's garbled cries, Bridget sets off at a dead run, leaving Vera trailing behind her.

She rounds the corner too fast, nearly colliding with the opposite wall, and her hand flies to her mouth in consternation when she sees Boomer cradling Franky's slumped form protectively in her arms. She's sat on the floor with Franky lolling listlessly against her, and even though Franky's eyes are swollen shut and her face is caked in blood, Bridget can see from the inmate's limp stance that she's unconscious. Bridget feels the bile rising in her throat as she takes in the mottled bruises that are already starting to form on Franky's exposed arms, and she feels sick to the stomach when she sees the blood oozing from the open gash on her temple. Only the sporadic rise and fall of Franky's chest stops her from losing it completely.

"I heard them saying they were going to give her a send off to remember, and I tried to get there in time...I tried," Boomer chokes out through her tears, "But it was too late."

"OK, Boomer, listen to me," Bridget says, and even though her voice is supposed to have a calming effect, she can't hide how much it's shaking, "We need to get Franky to medical, yeah? Do you think you can carry her there for me?"

Boomer nods through her tears, and Bridget resists the urge to cry out when she watches Boomer heave Franky off the floor. Boomer's clearly trying to be as gentle as possible, but Franky already looks broken beyond repair, and Bridget silently wills the other inmate not to drop her.

"Come on Franky, don't do this to me," she pleads, even though she knows her prayers are falling on deaf ears, because Franky isn't showing any signs of regaining consciousness.

"What the hell happened?" Vera asks, regarding the carnage unfolding before her with an aghast expression, "Jenkins, who did this?"

Boomer just shakes her head, and her lips remain tightly sealed as she continues to plough through the doors that Bridget hastily opens for her.

"Get out of the fucking way," Bridget practically yells at Will Jackson, who's currently the only thing standing between Franky and Nurse Atkins, and Will hastily moves aside, following them into the sick bay with a concerned expression on his face.

Boomer gingerly deposits Franky onto the bed, and Bridget moves to stand by her side almost immediately. Her fingertips are trembling as she painstakingly smooths Franky's matted hair away from her face, and her stomach roils when she realises that it's clumped together with dried blood.

"Franky? Franky, can you hear me?" she implores, and she has to force herself to move aside when Nurse Atkins reaches for a pair of scissors and starts unceremoniously cutting open Franky's blood-stained tank top. It's the first time Bridget's ever seen Franky's sculpted physique, but it wasn't supposed to be like this, and instead of admiring the inmate's toned stomach and drinking in the inviting swell of her breasts, she can barely bring herself to look at Franky's black and blue torso.

"Miss Westfall, I think it would be better for you to wait outside - " Vera starts to inform her, but Bridget shakes her head violently.

"No! If you want my resignation, Vera, you can have it, but I'm not leaving her here, not like this - so please don't ask me to," she practically begs, and she can't stop the tears from spilling over or the raw sob that escapes from her throat. It feels like the first breath she's taken in the last five minutes, and she hastily swipes at her eyes. Boomer looks at her in open-mouthed shock and Vera regards her like she's an embarrassment to her profession, but she doesn't try to forcibly evict her from the room, and right now, that's all Bridget really cares about.

"All right, Jenkins, we can take it from here. Go back to your block," Vera commands, but Boomer shakes her head resolutely.

"Nah, I'm fucking staying, too," she objects, and Bridget holds up her hand when Will moves to man-handle her out of the door.

"Boomer, Franky wouldn't want you to get in trouble, and I promise you, nothing's going to happen to her on my watch, OK? I'll make sure you're kept up to date with any developments, but you need to get out of here so Nurse Atkins has enough room to work."

Boomer hesitates, so Bridget compels her attention by laying a hand on her forearm.

"Hey," she says, willing the inmate to meet her understanding gaze, "I care about her as much as you do, OK?"

Boomer must see something in her expression, because she finally relents, moving towards the door, but then she turns around to address Franky's prostrate form.

"I'm sorry I stayed mad at you for so long, Franky," she says, like it might be the last time she gets the opportunity, and Bridget finds herself blinking back tears again.

"Those druggie bitches are gonna pay for this," Boomer adds under her breath, and Bridget's the only person who's close enough to hear her. She knows she should step in, that she should dissuade the inmate from enacting any kind of retribution, but instead she gives Boomer a curt nod. Then she turns her attention to Nurse Atkins.

"How bad is it?" she asks anxiously, and the Nurse regards her with a grim expression.

"Her pulse is a little thready and I'm worried about internal bleeding. I can't deal with her here, she's going to have to go to hospital."

"OK, Will, call an ambulance and tell them it's an emergency," Vera commands, "You can accompany Doyle to the hospital, but don't come back until you have the names of the inmates who did this to her. Understood?"

"Yes, Governor," Will says obligingly, but then he casts a conspiratorial look in Bridget's direction. "Should I take Miss Westfall with me? Doyle looks like she's been through the wringer. She could probably use a sympathetic ear when she wakes up."

Bridget doesn't really give a damn whether Vera allows her to accompany Will or not, because she intends to go to that hospital come hell or high water, but that doesn't stop her shoulders from sagging in relief when the Governor nods her approval.

"We'll continue our conversation later, Miss Westfall," she says curtly, and Bridget knows she's dangerously close to losing her job, but right now that's the least of her worries.

She reaches for Franky's hand while Nurse Atkins tends to the inmate's head wound, but her desperate grip immediately loosens when she sees how badly bruised Franky's knuckles are. They're completely raw - split open across the middle - and Franky obviously didn't go down without a fight.

"Come on, Franky, don't give up on me now," Bridget urges, stroking the inmate's wrist with her thumb, "You've got your whole life ahead of you."

"What is wrong with these women?" Nurse Atkins asks her, shaking her head in disgust. "One of their own finally makes parole, and yet they'd rather see her leave on a stretcher than walk out of here a free woman. I don't get it."

Bridget thinks back to what Vera said to her earlier, about how some of the inmates think that Franky's screwed her way to salvation, and she wonders if this is partly her fault; if Kim's jealousy and this vicious attack all boil down to her inability to maintain a professional distance.

"Franky, wake up," she whispers desperately, and for one heart-stopping second, she thinks she sees the inmate's battered eyelids start to flutter in response, but her hope quickly turns to despair when Franky's hand remains limp in her feather-light grasp.

"She's in here," Will announces, re-emerging with two paramedics in tow, and then Bridget's pushed to the side amidst the hubbub of activity that ensues. She watches the paramedics load Franky onto a mobile stretcher, and listens for any tell-tale signs of concern as they check her stats, but when Will pulls out a pair of handcuffs, poised to shackle Franky to the bed, Bridget can't quell her objections any longer.

"Will, for God's sake, she's getting out of here in a week," she reminds him. "For all intents and purposes, she's not a prisoner anymore."

Will looks genuinely contrite, but he shakes his head nevertheless.

"I'm sorry, but after what happened with Smith, we can't take any chances."

"In case you hadn't noticed, she's unconscious! She's hardly a flight risk."

"Governor's orders, Bridget," Will asserts, and his tone isn't quite as compromising anymore. "Now do you want to come with us, or not?"

The paramedics are looking back and forth between them, waiting for them to hash it out, and Bridget realises that they're wasting precious time, so she raises her hands in a momentary armistice.

"OK, fine, let's go!"

* * *

It's been a long time since Bridget has sat tearing her hair out in a hospital waiting room. She knows what it's like to watch someone she loves suffer, and the shiny floors and sterile walls are bringing back memories she would rather forget. She tries not to think about her father's turbulent battle with bowel cancer and how the hospital's maze of corridors became synonymous with watching him waste away, but making small talk with Will isn't much of a distraction and all she can do is sit here and try not to drown in her sense of impending dread.

It feels like hours before a Doctor finally approaches them, and Bridget has to clasp her hands behind her back to keep from wringing them.

"Miss Doyle took one hell of a beating," he informs them gravely. "There's a lot of soft tissue damage, but thankfully, the CAT scan didn't show any signs of serious head trauma. She has a couple of cracked ribs and a concussion, so I'd like to keep her overnight for observation, but she should make a full recovery. She's going to need a comprehensive pain management program, though, because she'll be sore for a few weeks."

Bridget can sense Will watching her, as though he's trying to glean something from her reaction, so she just nods her thanks, feeling her heart rate slow to something resembling a normal rhythm.

"She's awake now, if you want to speak with her," the Doctor adds, and Bridget breathes a sigh of relief.

"Thank you," Will says perfunctorily, and then he heads straight for Franky's room, with Bridget hot on his heels.

She tries not to gasp when she sees Franky's mangled face, which inexplicably looks even worse now that the blood has been cleaned away, but it's the remote look in the inmate's eyes that bothers her more than anything. She tries to catch Franky's gaze, which has been reduced to little more than a squint by the swelling around her eyes, but Franky won't look at her, and it takes all of Bridget's self restraint not to reach out to her.

"How are you holding up, Doyle?" Will asks her, before Bridget can even form the words, and Franky offers him a warped smile.

"Let's just say, now I know how Mr Fletcher felt after he got wiped out by that van."

"That bad, huh?" Will acknowledges with a sympathetic smile. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me who did this to you?"

Franky lets out a humourless laugh. "What do you think? Just because I'm getting out of here doesn't mean I'm going to start singing like a fucking canary."

"Franky, we can put you in protection. There won't be any reprisals," Bridget rushes to reassure her, but Franky shakes her head, wincing.

"Forget it."

Will clears his throat, gesturing to the door.

"OK, well, I'm going to let Miss Westfall try and talk some sense into you. I'll be outside if you need anything."

"You can take her with you," Franky informs him flatly, "I've got nothing to say to her."

The words cut Bridget to the core, but she knows what Franky's doing. She gestures for Will to leave the room, and then she perches on the end of the inmate's bed.

"I know you try and shut everyone out when you're hurting, Franky, but I thought we were past this," she says softly, but Franky still won't look her in the eye.

She maintains a stoic silence, and Bridget finally lets the day's events catch up with her.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to see you like this?" she demands, and her voice is raw with repressed emotion. "I was so worried about you, I nearly told Vera to go and fuck herself when she tried to stop me from seeing you - " she admits, wiping away the tears that are starting to stream down her cheeks, but Franky seems completely unmoved.

"I actually believed you, when you said that it would be different this time; that I had something to look forward to," she informs Bridget, in a tone that's laced with betrayal.

"You still do," Bridget hastens to reassure her, reaching out to stroke her arm, but Franky yanks it away from her, even though the abrupt movement causes her to hiss with pain.

"I told you, Gidget. I'm not the kind of girl who gets a happy ending," she asserts, in a hollow tone that suggests she's past the point of caring. "So do me a favour, and get out."

"Franky - " Bridget pleads, and for the first time, Franky looks at her, and Bridget almost wishes that she hadn't, because she's never seen the inmate look so dead-behind-the-eyes before.

"I said, GET OUT!"

Franky rolls over with obvious difficulty, purely so she can turn away from Bridget and face the wall, and Bridget has no choice but to oblige. She ignores Will's quizzical look as she hurries past him, heading straight for the ladies' bathroom, and she slams the cubicle door shut with shaking hands, kicking it for good measure. She draws in a shuddering breath, fighting for composure, but she can't seem to rein in the emotion, and she sinks to her knees, finally giving in to the racking sobs that have been threatening to overwhelm her all afternoon.


	7. Chapter 7

Franky thought the beating she took from Bea was bad enough, and there are still times when she wakes up drenched in sweat, remembering what it felt like to have a box cutter digging into her jugular. Still, at least that was something resembling a fair fight, and even though it came with a hefty dose of humiliation – especially when she realised she was just collateral damage on Red's revenge spree - knowing Bea was a worthy opponent made the brutal sting of defeat just about bearable.

This time, though, she didn't see it coming. When six of Cindy-Lou's disciples cornered Franky on her way out of the shower room, Franky knew there was no escape, and they spent the next ten minutes making it abundantly clear that they couldn't stand to see her walk away scot free - not when their personal Jesus was six feet under. It didn't matter that she wasn't the one who gave Cindy-Lou the dodgy gear, the fact that she was a dealer with a get-out-of-jail-free card and she was leaving the junkies behind to rot obviously didn't sit too well with them. They tag-teamed her with an unrelenting barrage of kicks and punches, but Franky didn't stop trying to claw her way to safety until they finally succeeded in knocking her out. Being stamped on like a cockroach and called a colourful array of insults should be second nature to her by now, but sometimes Franky thinks there isn't enough ink in the world to cover all of her scars. Every muscle in her body is screaming out for respite, and she wonders if it's even worth trying to piece herself back together again.

She knows none of this is Bridget's fault, but right now she can't face the therapist's words of encouragement, or some cliche-ridden pep talk. Bridget's taken away Franky's edge, chipped away at her defences, and now Franky's ability to block all of this shit out is severely compromised. She wants to curl into a ball and cry, but where the hell is that going to get her out there in the real world? All of this "getting in touch with your feelings" bullshit is starting to take its toll, and Bridget's promises of a better life seem pretty far-fetched when she's lying cuffed to a bed feeling like she's been levelled by a steam-roller.

She tries not to think about the crushed look on Bridget's face when she ordered her out of the room, because no matter what she might be feeling in the heat of the moment, and no matter how much she relishes the push-and-pull between them, Franky knows this will never last. Being smacked upside the head seems to have given her a renewed sense of perspective on the situation, and she knows screwing Bridget now will just make it that much harder when the therapist inevitably realises that they have nothing in common aside from visceral attraction. A couple of months ago, Franky thought she could live with that. Now, she's not so sure.

She should have learnt her lesson after everything that happened with Erica, because when the Governor rocked up with an engagement ring on her finger, Franky realised she would never be anything more than a stop-gap. She's the girl from the wrong side of the tracks, someone the classy chicks want to get down and dirty with, but she'll never be marriage material. Like she once said to Kim, there's no point in making plans, because they always fuck up, and she must have been delusional to believe that she and Bridget could ride off into the sunset together without someone showing up to throw a spanner in the works.

Franky knows her release date is just around the corner, but after several lengthy conversations with her Parole Officer, it's pretty obvious that the meagre funds she has left in her bank account aren't going to fund her existence. After she was sentenced, she managed to rake in a few bucks from a tabloid exclusive, although she lived to regret it when she saw the headline: _"If You Can't Stand The Heat, Get Out of the Kitchen: Crazed Chef Tells Her Side of the Story from Behind Bars"_ \- but she blew most of the cash on keeping her belongings in storage, and now she only has enough left to cover a couple of months' worth of rent. She isn't going to be able to walk into a well-paid position, not with her record, and she's starting to wonder if all that awaits her is a grotty bedsit and another mind-numbing, minimum-wage job.

Couple all of that with the prospect of being wheeled back into Wentworth looking like a human punching bag, and Franky's feeling pretty fucking sorry for herself. She wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, but instead she gets to watch Cindy-Lou's cronies smirk at her while she can't do a damn thing about it. And who knows? Maybe Queen Bea will exact revenge on her behalf, leaving everyone with the impression that Franky's so pathetic, she needs someone else to fight her battles for her.

"Hey! I need some more pain relief in here," she yells, hoping that the Nurses will administer another dose of morphine. It's the closest thing she'll get to a sedative, and right now, losing herself to oblivion is a hell of a lot better than facing reality.

When the door opens, she's not expecting to see Bridget standing there, and the therapist looks uncharacteristically dishevelled, like she's about to come apart at the seams. Franky can see that she's been crying, and something heavy settles in the pit of her stomach when she takes in Bridget's rumpled clothes and the loose tendrils of hair that have worked their way free from her ponytail.

"I thought you would've pissed off a long time ago," Franky observes, trying to force some contempt into her tone.

"You can't get rid of me that easily," Bridget asserts, in a voice that's tight with tension. "But I'm afraid the Nurse says you're not due another round of painkillers for a couple of hours."

"Well, that's just fucking great. I'll just sit here and suffer then, shall I?"

"I'm sorry," Bridget tells her, and her face is furrowed with concern, "I wish there was something more I could do."

She moves to stand beside Franky's bed, and her purposeful stride is a lot more hesitant than usual. Franky wishes that she wasn't immobilised by the handcuffs, because when Bridget reaches out to caress the one part of her face that isn't fifty shades of purple, all she can do is jerk away and turn her head to the side. Bridget doesn't take the hint, though, she just opts to stroke Franky's hair instead, and her touch is so painstakingly gentle, Franky bites her lip to keep from whimpering. She's used to the rough and tumble of prison life, the beatings and the fist-pumps and the high-fives; the hurried and frantic sex that's geared towards release instead of intimacy, and Bridget's tenderness is almost too much for her to bear.

"God, look at you," the therapist despairs, lightly tracing the butterfly stitches that are traversing the gash across Franky's temple, and Franky's lips curl into a bitter smile.

"Yeah, not so pretty now, am I? I'm not sure if you got the memo, Gidget, but I'm pretty much indisposed, so if you were hoping to get some action next week - " Franky attempts to wiggle her fingers for long enough to get Bridget's attention, trying not to cry out with pain, "I'm afraid a few of the vital parts aren't in working order."

"Come on, Franky," Bridget retorts in a hushed, but forceful whisper, "This was never just about sex."

Franky wants to raise her eyebrows, but it hurts too damn much to try.

"Really?" she counters incredulously, "Because I asked you if you were in love with me and – unless this concussion's fucked up my head more than I thought – I'm pretty sure you said "no.""

Bridget shuffles back and forth on her feet, avoiding Franky's accusatory stare, but then she squares her shoulders and meets Franky's gaze with a renewed sense of purpose.

"Yeah, well I lied, OK?" she blurts out, with unflinching honesty. "I lied."

Franky wasn't expecting that, and it takes all of her acting skills not to look affected by Bridget's heartfelt revelation.

"Oh Gidget, I'm touched," she says, in a facetious tone that suggests she's anything but, "And I'd love to return the sentiment, but considering I know fuck all about you, I think it'd be a little bit premature."

Franky sees the crestfallen expression on Bridget's face, and it gnaws away at her resolve, but she reminds herself that self-preservation is the only weapon she has left at her disposal, and even though it pains her to keep pushing Bridget away, she knows it'll hurt a lot less in the long run. She tries not to think about everything Bridget's done for her – risking her job and her reputation to fight her corner when everyone else had written her off - and she goes in for the kill.

"Let's face it Gidget, you'll get bored of me in a couple of months when you've played out this kinky little fantasy of yours, so why don't you do us both a favour and go and find yourself a real girlfriend? Or, you know, maybe I should be wondering why no-one's snapped you up already?" Franky taunts, feeling almost as uncomfortable as Bridget when she watches the therapist start to squirm.

"I bet you're one of those people who acts like Billy Big Balls at work, like you've got everything under control, and then you go home to your sad little life and cry yourself to sleep at night, right?" Franky deduces, even though she knows what she's saying is total bullshit. Bridget's one of the most together people she's ever met. "I mean, falling for a prisoner, that's pretty fucking dysfunctional, right? Is that why you wanted to become a shrink? So you could try and forget how messed up you are and pick at other people's problems instead?"

For a second, Bridget looks like she's been slapped in the face, but she quickly recovers her composure.

"Franky, did the other inmates attack you because of your relationship with me? Is that why you're lashing out at me like this?" she asks, and Franky doesn't understand why she still cares; why she's trying to find some logic in her irrational attack.

"The last thing I wanted was to compromise your safety or your standing with the other women - you have to know that," Bridget informs her earnestly, and Franky wants to scream with frustration, because Bridget's making this too hard. She wants the therapist to walk away and never look back, but she's not heartless enough to let her shoulder the responsibility for this.

"Don't flatter yourself," Franky says acerbically. "Cindy-Lou's crew had it in for me long before you came along. I used to be their supplier and, when I couldn't deliver the goods anymore, let's just say they decided to bite off the hand that used to feed them. I mean, you saw them circling me like a bunch of piranhas before, right? They've been waiting to jump me for months. But if you breathe a word of that to Miss Bennett - " Franky warns her, even though she knows how ridiculous she must sound, making idle threats from the confines of her hospital bed.

"I won't," Bridget assures her quietly, "She could veto your parole if she knows that you were involved in drug trafficking."

"I wasn't just involved, Gidget, I was the fucking King Pin," Franky proclaims, in an arrogant tone that practically invites Bridget to do something about it, "I used to run that place and I would beat down any bitch that stood in my way - "

"OK, that's enough!" Bridget snaps, holding up her hand, "Don't put me in this position again, Franky."

"But I thought you wanted to know all about my sordid past?" Franky retorts, and now she's found Bridget's vice, she quickly changes tactics. "I might not have been tried for all of my crimes, Gidget, but believe me when I say, my hands are plenty dirty. I'm a drug dealer, a murderer, a bully - "

"Franky - " Bridget protests, but Franky's determined to shatter all of the therapist's illusions once and for all.

"You wanna know why Kim's so fucked up? It's because I spent two years using her for sex and then I just threw her to the dogs. All take and no give, that's my speciality," Franky informs her, trying to sound unrepentant, when really she can feel the shame starting to eat away at her. "And Boomer...Boomer was the most loyal friend I've ever had, and I stood back and watched while someone shut her hands in a steam press for what felt like a fucking eternity. I listened to her screams and I smelt her flesh burning and I didn't even try to stop them," Franky spits out, trying to fight back her tears, "And because she wasn't around to protect me anymore, I whored myself out to the highest bidder, because I will do _whatever_ it takes to survive, even if it means selling my soul to the fucking Devil. So yeah, you've landed yourself a real fucking catch here, Gidget."

Franky's tears finally spill over, and she lets out an anguished yelp when the salt water trickles down her cheeks, scalding the raw cuts that are littered across her face. She can hardly bring herself to look at Bridget, because she can already imagine the disgust and disappointment that must be clouding the other woman's features, but when she finally works up the courage to seek out the therapist's gaze, the only thing she sees there is empathy and sorrow.

"Boomer was the one who found you, you know?" Bridget tells her softly, as though Franky hasn't just confessed to being a heinous excuse for a human being, "She was distraught when she saw the state of you, but she managed to carry you all the way to the medical wing. Vera almost had to slot her because she refused to leave your side. She still thinks the world of you, Franky."

Franky sucks in a shuddering breath, and she isn't sure whether it's a disbelieving laugh or a relieved sob.

"Yeah, well I'll be fucked if I know why. Liz only lagged on us because the gear I was bringing in was some seriously toxic shit, and Boomer took the fall for my fuck-ups. But it wasn't their fault, it was mine. It was _mine._ "

"Franky, I know you," Bridget informs her compassionately, "And no matter what shit you might have been sucked into while you were in that place, no matter how many skeletons you've got lurking in your closet, I still believe that you're a good person underneath it all."

Franky wants to scoff at Bridget, she wants to tell her that she's a fucking idiot, but the therapist's devoted words make something inside of her break.

"Then why does shit like this keep happening to me? Why won't someone up there cut me a fucking break?" she asks plaintively, and she hates the fact that she's crying like a bloody sook again. It hurts like hell, because her ribs can't take the strain of her chest heaving with convulsive sobs, and Bridget's face melts into an expression that looks a lot like love as she reaches for Franky's hand.

"How about you start by cutting yourself a break?" she suggests, brushing her thumb back and forth over Franky's hand, "And stop trying to drive away the people who care about you. Because I'm not going anywhere, Franky," she concludes decisively, "And you can try and convince me that you're the fucking Godfather if you want, but I won't buy it."

Franky knows how dangerous it is to believe a statement like that, as much as she'd like to, but it doesn't stop her from burying her face in the crook of Bridget's neck when the other woman leans over to press a delicate kiss against her forehead.

"I don't want to go back there," she whispers into Bridget's shoulder, and Bridget pulls back a little, regarding her with troubled eyes.

"I know," she says sympathetically, "But let's not think about that for now. You should try and get some rest. I'll stay until you fall asleep."

Franky shakes her head, wincing.

"Nah, I fucking hate hospitals. There's no way I'm sleeping in this place unless someone knocks me out with a tranquilliser dart."

"I could never sleep in here, either," Bridget admits, picking at a piece of lint on Franky's bedsheet.

Franky looks at her quizzically, and Bridget offers her a sad smile.

"My Dad had terminal cancer and he was practically a live-in patient here during his last few months. They used to let me stay with him overnight sometimes, but I could never get past the smell of the place, or the bleeps of the machines, and I was always scared that if I let myself sleep, he wouldn't be alive when I woke up in the morning."

"Shit, Gidget, I'm sorry," Franky murmurs, although there's a small part of her that can't help but feel intrigued by the fact that Bridget's finally opening up to her.

"What...what about your Mum?" she asks tentatively, half expecting Bridget to shut her down, but Bridget just shrugs nonchalantly.

"She's still around, but we're not especially close. She never really approved of the whole "lesbian" thing," she admits, with a crooked smile.

"She'd shit a brick if she saw you with me, then," Franky remarks, and Bridget laughs out loud.

"Oh yeah, she'd have a conniption fit," the therapist agrees, "But I stopped giving a damn a long time ago. Thankfully, I'm an only child, so she never had the opportunity to play me off against any siblings."

"So you're pretty much a lone wolf, then, huh?" Franky asks her, and it wasn't what she expected at all.

"I have a couple of close friends who live in the city, but yeah, I like to keep myself to myself for the most part," Bridget concedes, but then her face lights up in a goofy grin, "Although I do have a dog called Jasper, who doesn't listen to a damn word I say and likes to piss on the carpet every morning before I leave for work, just to spite me. I pay one of the kids in the neighbourhood to look after him when I'm not around, but he really knows how to put me on a guilt trip. I got him from the local rescue shelter - he'd been there for nearly a year. Nobody wanted him because of his behavioural issues, but I couldn't say no to that face."

Franky bursts out laughing, and even though her jaw is throbbing, she can't stop her smile from getting progressively wider as she listens to Bridget talk about her life.

"So you've got a habit of picking up waifs and strays wherever you go, huh?" she teases, and Bridget winks at her.

"Only the cute ones. Oh, and for your information, the reason why I'm still single at the grand old age of 42 is because I don't believe in relationships of convenience, or settling for someone who isn't the right fit. I had my fair share of fun when I was younger, but now I'm working 12 hour days, I don't have time to mess around. And besides, I reckon I can afford to be picky. I'm not a dried-up old hag just yet, in spite of what Kim Chang might think," Bridget says, with a rakish grin, and Franky regards her in amusement.

"So I meet your high standards, do I?"

"Well, that depends..." Bridget teases, with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, "I haven't put you through your paces yet."

Franky snorts, surprised by Bridget's audacity.

"You wouldn't take advantage of an injured woman, would you, Doc?"

Bridget just shakes her head, smiling.

"You should get some rest; maybe that'll assist in your recovery," she points out drily, but Franky doesn't ever want this conversation to end.

"So if you're not dolling yourself up and going out on dates, how do you spend your evenings, Gidge?"

"After I've taken the dog for a walk and fixed some dinner, I usually curl up with a glass of wine and a good book," Bridget says, pulling a face as if it's suddenly occurred to her just how boring that sounds.

"Well, my curfew is at 10pm, so I guess I can learn to get used to the sedentary lifestyle... Granny."

"Fuck off!" Bridget exclaims, tapping Franky lightly on the thigh, and Franky pretends that it hurts, even though her smile suggests otherwise.

"Hey, play nice! I'm in a world of pain here!"

Bridget's touch turns into a gentle caress, and Franky can feel the heat of her hand emanating through the blanket, warming her from the inside out. She can't help but think how unfair it is, though, that Bridget's being this tactile when she's powerless to respond in kind.

"Didn't you once say that there's pleasure in pain?" the therapist asks her, tongue firmly in cheek, and Franky levels her with a cocky smile.

"Hanging on my every word, are you, Gidge?"

Bridget's cheeks turn pink, and she bites her lip, momentarily turning away from Franky so she can take a seat in the chair adjacent to her bed.

"Come on, don't stop!" Franky protests, regarding Bridget with pleading eyes, "Keep talking. I could use the distraction."

Bridget regards her contemplatively for a moment, but then she nods, levelling Franky with a warm smile.

"OK. As for my first time with a woman – well, with anyone, actually - I was 18 and in college and it was like every bad trope you can imagine," Bridget informs her with a grimace, "She seemed into it at the time and I woke up full of the joys of spring, but after she sobered up, she told me that it was a huge mistake, that she had a boyfriend back home who she loved, and that it was never going to happen again – not that that's any comment on my sexual prowess," she jokes, and Franky can't resist the opportunity to goad her.

"I don't know, Gidge, if you're doing it right, they always come back for more. I mean, look at Kim, she used to be all about her meat and two veg and then boom, she met me and suddenly she's a full-blown vagitarian."

"Yeah, I get it, your milkshake brings all the girls to the yard. Maybe you should forget Law and consider a career in recruitment instead," Bridget says blithely, and Franky's ribs twinge as she convulses with laughter.

"You're killing me here, Gidge."

Bridget's expression is still laced with mirth as she regards Franky affectionately.

"Just for the record, I haven't had any complaints since."

"Sounds like it's been a while, though," Franky jests, and Bridget's mouth falls open in pseudo outrage.

"I finally tell you about myself and all you do is mock me," she complains, and Franky tries to contort her expression into one of sympathy.

"Aw, poor baby," she laments, but then she breathes in a little too deeply and their back and forth banter can't eclipse the pain anymore.

"Ow _, fuck,"_ she cusses, and Bridget abruptly stands up again, laying a soothing hand on her shoulder.

"OK, take it easy. I'm going to find a Nurse and persuade them to give you some more pain relief, OK?"

"But we can talk some more when you get back?" Franky asks hopefully, and she realises how desperate that sounds, so she tries to play it off by adding, "Unless there's some place you've got to be? I mean, I know you've got your dog - "

"Franky, I told you, I'm not leaving you," Bridget informs her intently, and Franky inwardly marvels at her ability to read between the lines.

She nods her gratitude, watching Bridget head for the door, and now she knows that they can sustain a normal conversation outside of Wentworth's walls - and that Bridget won't always be analysing her every move or trying to teach her some kind of life lesson - Franky suddenly feels a hell of a lot better.

* * *

Bridget stops by the vending machine on her way back to the ward, grabbing a black coffee in readiness for what will undoubtedly be a long night, but she nearly spills it when she rounds the corner and sees Vera Bennett standing ominously outside of Franky's room. The Interim Governor makes for a comical sentry, with her petite stature and excessively upright posture, but her sour expression still makes her look unapproachable, and Bridget finally starts to understand why the inmates have christened her Vinegar Tits.

"I've just relieved Mr Jackson of his duties," the Governor informs Bridget needlessly, and Bridget nods her acknowledgement, wondering why Vera chose to work the night shift when she could have just sent Matt Fletcher or Linda Myles instead.

"How's Doyle doing?" Vera persists, and Bridget gets the impression that she only cares because she's trying to minimise the fallout and avoid a full-blown investigation.

"She's in a lot of pain, but she's hanging in there. I've just asked the Nurse to up her meds."

"Well, I'm glad there isn't any long-term damage," Vera concedes, and she almost sounds sincere. "Did she say who did this to her? Mr Jackson said she was reluctant to open up to him, but I thought she might have been more...forthcoming...with you?"

Bridget avoids Vera's gaze, shaking her head. "I'm afraid not. You know what these women are like, Vera, they won't trade their secrets for love nor money."

"Mmm," Vera murmurs, and Bridget gets the impression that she can see right through her bare-faced lie.

The Governor glances at her watch, and then taps on the clock face pointedly.

"Miss Westfall, you've been on duty for over 12 hours now. I'm afraid that I can't approve any non-essential overtime, so I'm going to have to ask you to go home."

"I wasn't planning on logging any extra hours, Vera, and I don't expect you to pay me for my time," Bridget informs her in a clipped tone, "I'm here of my own volition."

"But that's hardly appropriate," Vera points out. "You're not a family member. You have no entitlement to visit Doyle, unless it's in a professional capacity."

"Come on Vera - " Bridget starts to object, but Vera holds up her hand to quell her protests.

"After your little...display of emotion in the medical wing today, you should be grateful that I allowed you to come here at all. Your behaviour was completely out of line, and worse still, it was witnessed by an inmate. No doubt Jenkins has gone running back to her friends to tell them that our prison counsellor was inexplicably upset about Franky Doyle's predicament, and I'm sure you're aware what effect that will have in terms of the rumours. If the Board gets wind of this - "

"Vera, I know you're just trying to do your job, and I know I'm putting you in a difficult position," Bridget interjects, doing her best to sound reasonable, "But I meant what I said before – I'll have my letter of resignation on your desk tomorrow morning. Just let me stay with her until she's released from hospital, OK? Who's going to know?"

"You would do that?" Vera asks incredulously. "You would give up your job and a six figure salary for a lowlife thug like Franky Doyle?"

The Governor stares at her with a mixture of pity and contempt, but Bridget regards her unflinchingly.

"I think your assessment of Franky's character is woefully misguided, but yes, I would."

"But why?" Vera demands, still visibly perturbed. "Can't you see that Doyle's taking you for a ride? She's already sweet-talked you into singing her praises at her parole hearing, what's to stop her from treating you like a cash cow until she finds her feet?"

"I've been in this profession for 20 years, Vera, I'm not naive. I know when I'm being played, and that's not what's happening here," Bridget asserts, steadfast in her conviction.

Vera studies her for a moment, and then she shakes her head despairingly.

"Well, I hope you're right, Miss Westfall, for your own sake."

"I'll take my chances, but thank you for your concern," Bridget says, with no small measure of sarcasm.

She moves to re-enter Franky's room, but Vera grasps her arm, pulling her aside.

"Look, maybe I didn't make myself clear the first time. This has gone far enough. I can't let you back inside that room."

Bridget stares at her uncomprehendingly, but she isn't about to back down without a fight.

"Vera, she's cuffed to the bed and beaten black and blue, what do you think's going to happen? I'm just trying to stop her from going stir crazy, that's all."

"I'm sorry, but it wouldn't be ethical of me to endorse whatever it is that's going on between you two," Vera persists, and Bridget can tell from her stony expression that she won't be able to persuade her otherwise.

"Jesus Christ, Vera, you picked one hell of a time to grow a backbone," Bridget snaps, but she obligingly lets go of the door handle.

"Hey, Franky!" she hollers, "Miss Bennett's decided that we've had enough quality time together for one day. She won't let me back in."

" _Miss Westfall_ \- " Vera hisses, glancing up and down the corridor to see if Bridget's outburst is garnering any unwanted attention.

"Tell the miserable bitch to fuck off, then!" Franky yells back, and Bridget tries desperately hard not to laugh.

"Watch it, Franky," Bridget chastises her through the door, "I don't want you getting called up on any more verbal abuse charges, OK? So please try and be civil to Miss Bennett while I'm gone."

"Then you'd better tell the Nurse to forget the morphine and bring me some fucking Valium."

This time, Bridget can't hide her smile, although it quickly fades when she realises that she's going to have to walk away and leave Franky to fend for herself when she expressly promised the inmate that she wouldn't.

"I'll see you soon, yeah? You stay strong and remember that you're on the home stretch now. Five more days, Franky - that's nothing in the big scheme of things."

This time, there's no answer, and Bridget bites her bottom lip anxiously. She can only imagine the tumultuous thoughts that must be racing through Franky's head right now, and she knows that in the inmate's current condition, five days are going to feel like a lifetime.

"Bridget, I really am sorry," Vera tells her, and the fact that she sounds genuinely apologetic barely registers amidst Bridget's anger.

"Yeah, well, tell that to Franky. She's the one who got beaten to within an inch of her life. She's hurting, Vera, physically and mentally - and now she gets to process everything on her own."

Bridget shakes her head in disgust, and then she turns on her heel and walks away. She barely makes it to the car park before she's reaching for her phone, and she sinks into the driver's seat of her Porsche, dialling the number of Franky's Parole Officer.

"Isabel, I'm so sorry to call you this late," she apologises, praying that the other woman won't hold it against her.

"Don't worry about it, hun, I'm a night owl. I haven't even started to wind down yet," Isabel assures her, and Bridget breathes a sigh of relief.

"Is it about Franky?" Isabel asks intuitively, "I heard about what happened to her this afternoon. We had a meeting scheduled for tomorrow, too - I've got a couple of job interviews lined up for her and I think I've found a flat that might be in her price range. It's not a palace, by any means, and she's proving to be a fussy bugger, but it should do her for now. That's if the poor kid's even well enough to make her release date."

"Well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about, actually. She's in a bad way, Isabel, and I'm worried this might tip her over the edge. I think if she has to go back to Wentworth, she's going to lose it, and I know we'd both hate to see her undo all of her hard work," Bridget observes, taking a deep breath. "Do you think there's any way Judge Burns might move forward her release date? I mean, she's already approved her parole, surely she won't object to taking 5 days off her sentence, given the circumstances?"

"I doubt it, Bridget," Isabel says regretfully, "It sounds like Franky isn't in a fit state to look after herself and she hasn't got anyone to take care of her. No friends, no family – or at least, that's what she tells me."

Bridget hesitates for a moment, and then she decides to take a huge leap of faith, hoping that her assessment of Isabel - who seems like someone who can look past bureaucratic red tape in favour of doing the right thing - isn't completely wrong.

"But what if there was someone? Would you consider making an appeal to the Judge on her behalf? I just... I hate seeing her shackled to that hospital bed looking so damn sorry for herself. She was finally looking forward to getting out - gearing up to start her new life - but this has put a major dampener on things and I don't want it to affect her mindset, or her momentum. She needs this, Isabel, so if you can pull any strings, I'd be eternally grateful."

"Bridget, are you saying what I think you're saying?" Isabel asks her, sounding more intrigued than appalled, and Bridget smiles into the receiver.

"Let's just say I have it on good authority that Franky has a place to stay and that she'll be well looked after."

"I'm going to have to make a record of her forwarding address, though," Isabel warns her, and Bridget nods her assent.

"Well, as of tomorrow, I won't be working for Wentworth anymore, so it won't be a conflict of interests," she informs her colleague.

"Shit, Bridget, you're packing it in? I'm really sorry to hear that," Isabel laments, "You were bloody good at helping these women to get their heads screwed on straight."

"And you're bloody good at helping them to stay that way," Bridget counters, making Isabel laugh.

"I see, so now you're resorting to flattery?" Isabel discerns in an amused tone, but then she goes silent for a moment, leaving Bridget hanging in suspense until she eventually proclaims, "Oh well, what the hell, I like the kid. She's got spunk and smarts, which is more than I can say for most of the women in there. Now, I'm not making any promises," Isabel cautions her, "But leave it with me and I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you, Isabel," Bridget breathes, looking up at the night sky and wondering if there is a God after all. "Thank you so much."


	8. Chapter 8

_**Thank you so much for all of your lovely reviews! I'm off to L Fest next weekend, so I won't be updating for a couple of weeks, but I hope this long-assed chapter makes up for it in the meantime. :)**_

* * *

Franky should have learned to kiss goodbye to her dignity a long time ago, but having to ask to use the bathroom like some snotty-nosed primary school kid never gets any easier, especially when she has to address her request to someone who clearly enjoys seeing her in all of her pitiful glory. When Miss Bennett reluctantly unlocks her handcuffs, Franky tries to flex her fingers to kick-start her circulation again, but she soon realises it was a bad idea when the dull ache in her hands transforms into a searing jolt of pain.

She wants to scream every expletive under the sun, but after enduring a shitty night's sleep filled with morphine-fuelled nightmares that were far too vivid for her liking, she doesn't even have the energy to complain. She makes a valiant effort to sit upright, even though her ribs would clearly prefer her to remain reclined, and then she shuffles off the bed, fighting off a wave of nausea when her feet hit the ground.

Miss Bennett tries to slip an arm around her waist, supporting her on her quest to reach the bathroom door, but Franky jerks away from her. There's no denying that she could use the help, but she'd rather go it alone than lean on the Governor's shoulder - especially as the heartless cow kept her from spending the night getting intimately acquainted with Bridget.

"OK, Doyle, suit yourself," Miss Bennett snipes, abruptly stepping aside, and Franky can see her looking on impassively as she limps a couple of inches at a time, hugging her ribs protectively.

"Leave it open," the Governor orders when she finally manages to push open the bathroom door, as if Franky's somehow going to miraculously recover and sidle her way out of the second-storey window. Still, at least Vera has the decency to turn away when Franky starts to lift up her hospital gown. It takes her ten whole seconds to ease herself onto the toilet seat, and then another thirty before her bladder decides not to be quite so bashful.

She reaches for the toilet roll, but when she sees the Governor casting a cursory glance at her, like some kind of sick voyeur who just can't help herself, Franky can't resist exacting her revenge.

"Miss Bennett..." she asks, trying to sound as sheepish as possible, "Would you mind..."

She tilts her head towards the toilet roll.

"My fingers won't bend, so unless you want to wait there while I drip dry..."

Franky watches Vera's eyes widen in horror, and she tries not to burst out laughing. She carries on regarding the Governor with a feeble, but expectant expression, until Vera stammers:

"Don't move a muscle, Doyle. I'll... I'll go and get a Nurse to...assist you."

Franky can't contain her amusement anymore, and she levels Vera with a warped grin.

"Relax, I'm just joshing with ya."

Of course, Vinegar Tits doesn't see the funny side, and Franky finds herself on the receiving end of a virulent glare. She knows she shouldn't poke the bear, but it doesn't stop her from sniggering to herself as she arduously makes her way back to her bed.

As soon as her ass hits the mattress, Miss Bennett reaches for the handcuffs again, and as tempting as it is to kick up a fuss, Franky remembers Bridget's warning about being on her best behaviour, so she grits her teeth and fights the urge to make a crude quip about the Governor finally spicing up her non-existent sex life.

"So, what's going on with you and Miss Westfall?" Vera asks her out of the blue, and she's trying to sound as innocuous as possible, even though she's blatantly digging for dirt.

"Well, last time I checked, she's the prison shrink and I'm just a girl with a whole lot of issues," Franky retorts, trying to find a comfortable position on the bed and failing miserably.

"Nice try, Doyle, but you're not fooling me, and you should know I don't look favourably on prisoners who take advantage of my staff."

Franky gestures to her battered body, regarding the Governor with a disaffected expression.

"I don't think I'm gonna be taking advantage of anyone for a while."

Miss Bennett folds her arms, somehow managing to look like a crotchety old fart in spite of her relatively young age.

"I haven't always been Miss Westfall's biggest fan, but she's throwing her career away for you and I think it's a damn shame."

Franky hates the fact that Bridget's reputation is suffering at her expense, but she isn't about to sit back and let Vera question her motives.

"You mean you're gonna fire her because you'd rather believe a bunch of rumours than listen to the two people who actually know the truth?" she counters, and the Governor rolls her eyes.

"You can stop playing coy, Doyle, because the cat's out of the bag. I saw how Miss Westfall reacted when we found you yesterday. She has feelings for you; she practically admitted as much, but you're just using her as a meal ticket, aren't you?"

Franky can feel the anger building, but she tries desperately hard to keep it at bay.

"And you're passing judgement on things you know nothing about," she says heatedly, and Vera regards her critically.

"So, what, you're trying to tell me that you two are "in love?"" she surmises, barely containing her amusement, "I know they say opposites attract, Doyle, and I know you have a hard time keeping that ego of yours in check, but you must be living in cloud cuckoo land if you think you and Miss Westfall are even remotely compatible. What could you possibly have in common?"

"Well, we both like banging chicks, so that's a pretty good start," Franky bites back, trying not to show how much Vera's words are afflicting her.

The Governor is stunned into silence for a moment, but then she wrinkles her nose in distaste.

"I ought to tell the Parole Board what's been going on between you two, because if Miss Westfall's willing to resign so she can spend the night being your nursemaid, clearly her judgement has been compromised."

Franky tries to control her temper, she really does, but she hates that people can still use her freedom as a bartering chip, even when it's so close she can practically taste it. Couple that with the smug look on Vera's face, and she can't bite her tongue anymore.

"God, you're just like the Fucking Freak," she finally explodes, "Some twisted little Mini Me that gets her rocks off by fucking up people's lives. So yeah, you go ahead, go and destroy Bridget's career when she hasn't laid a finger on me, and go and screw up my parole so you can watch me suffer until your heart's content," Franky spits out, jerking her head aggressively towards the door. "Come on, what are you waiting for?"

"Doyle, you're treading on thin ice," Vera warns her, but once someone's rubbed Franky up the wrong way, there's no stopping her.

"Except you don't really have a heart, do you, Miss Bennett? Because if you did, you wouldn't be trying to ruin this for me. All I want is a shot at being happy for once in my life, but God forbid you stand back and let that happen."

"You make it sound like this is some kind of personal vendetta, when it's a simple matter of what's right and what's wrong," Vera tells her sanctimoniously, "And I am _nothing_ like Joan Ferguson."

"No, you're just some tragic fucking spinster who's probably never gotten her leg over in her life," Franky says cuttingly. "Is that why you're so hell bent on convincing yourself that me and Bridget are shagging like rabbits? Because I'm telling you now, Bridget's done nothing wrong; she's been the picture of self-restraint and she's shut me down more times than I can count."

"I find that hard to believe," Vera sneers with an infuriating smirk, and Franky glares at her.

"Well, it's the truth," she retorts angrily, "I'm the one that pushed this, not her. But I swear, if you send me back to that shit house and she's not around to help me hold it together, you're going to find me swinging from the rafters one morning with a note saying "Miss Bennett made me do it" taped to my chest. Then you can kiss goodbye to that shiny new badge you're wearing, _Governor._ "

"Oh for God's sake, Doyle, stop being so melodramatic," Vera snaps, but Franky can see that she's getting under the other woman's skin.

"Oh, and I'll have plenty to say about your so-called leadership skills when they launch an investigation into how I ended up in here, too... lack of adequate supervision, failing to protect the women in your care, allowing gang members to share the same unit so they had plenty of time to plot my demise, not to mention the minor issue of not knowing what the hell is going on in your own prison," she reels off, feeling a thrill of satisfaction when she sees the colour start to drain from Vera's face.

"OK, Doyle, that's it. I'm writing you up for making overt threats against a senior Of - " Vera starts to say, but she's cut short by an assertive knock on the door.

"Who is it?" she yells, visibly flustered, and Franky looks up in surprise when Isabel appears in the door way.

"Jesus Christ, Franky, they really did a number on you, didn't they?" the Parole Officer asks sympathetically, wincing as she takes in the sight of Franky's war wounds. "How are you feeling today?"

"All the better for seeing you, Bella," Franky replies glibly, grateful for Isabel's timely intervention, "But I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to start monitoring me until _after_ I'm released."

"Well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about, actually," Isabel informs them both, and it's only then that Franky sees the clipboard and official-looking piece of paper in her hands.

"I heard what happened yesterday and, given the extenuating circumstances, I thought I would speak to Judge Burns this morning and see if she would be willing to bring forward your release date."

"You're shitting me?" Franky demands, at the exact same moment Vera states: "I'm not sure if that would be appropriate."

Isabel looks a little perplexed by Vera's reaction, but then she turns to face Franky with a beaming smile.

"I must have caught her on a good day, because she remembered you, Franky, and I didn't even have to use my powers of persuasion to convince her to say "yes." As soon as the Doctor gives you the all-clear, you're free to go - assuming that's all right with you, Governor Bennett?"

Isabel hands the signed court order to the Governor for her appraisal, and Franky glances anxiously at her nemesis, bracing herself for the inevitable "no." It feels like time has been temporarily suspended as she waits for Vera's verdict, and she wants to kick herself for her earlier outburst now, because Bridget's right, she's the poster child for self-sabotage, and if she'd just learn to keep her stupid mouth shut -

"I don't see any reason why not," Vera eventually concedes, with all the enthusiasm of someone who has a loaded gun pointed at their head, but when Isabel hands her the clipboard and some paperwork to sign, she hastily scribbles her name.

Franky does a double take, trying to stop her mouth from falling open in shock, because she wasn't expecting any kind of leniency at all.

"After all, I wouldn't want to stand in the way of Franky's happiness," the Governor adds, regarding Franky with an icy expression, and Franky almost feels guilty for being such a hateful bitch to her, although she has the feeling that her threats were much more effective than she'd anticipated.

"Thank you, Miss Bennett," she says, and this time, she really means it, "And I'm sorry about before, OK? Bridget says I'm a work in progress, but sometimes the "progress" part gets eclipsed by my tendency to be a dickhead."

"Yes, well, that's putting it mildly," Vera retorts, but then she regards Franky with the barest hint of a smile. "Just don't ever darken Wentworth's doorstep again, Doyle. I've seen enough of you to last a life time."

"If I ever come back, I'll serve my whole sentence in the slot. I promise," Franky vows with a rueful smile, rattling her handcuffs, "And not to push my luck or anything, but do you think you could - "

"Actually, Vera, would you mind if I do the honours?" Bridget interjects, appearing in Franky's doorway like some kind of fucking Fairy Godmother. She's wearing skinny jeans and a low-cut emerald sweater, and she looks even hotter in casual wear than she does in her fancy work clothes. Franky drinks in every curve of her slender figure before she settles on Bridget's face, and even though there are a few tell-tale signs that the therapist didn't get a wink of sleep last night, she's still the most beautiful sight Franky has ever seen.

Franky watches Bridget set down a cumbersome duffel bag on the floor, but she doesn't even stop to wonder what's in it, because the sight of the therapist bending over right in front of her is entrancing enough to short-circuit her brain. You could bounce a coin off Bridget's ass, and Franky doesn't even try to hide the fact that she's ogling it when the other woman straightens up and catches her staring unabashedly.

Franky can't quite manage a megawatt grin with her cheeks swollen like a chipmunk's, but she does her damnedest to try, and for a second, all she can do is gawk at Bridget like a love-struck gimp. Bridget's eyes crinkle with affection, but then she self-consciously averts her gaze, focusing her attention on Isabel instead.

Franky gets the impression that Isabel might not have acted alone in securing her early release when Bridget squeezes her Parole Officer's shoulder, breaking into a warm smile. She whispers something that Franky and Vera are too far away to hear, but it doesn't stop the Governor's lips from pursing into a thin line as she observes their interaction.

"I should have known you had something to do with this," she discerns disapprovingly, levelling Bridget with a suspicious stare, and Franky looks on in concern as the therapist turns to face Vera with a long-suffering smile.

"OK, Vera, spare me the lecture. I had a grand total of two hours' sleep last night and I could do without the holier-than-thou attitude." Bridget reaches into her handbag, producing a sealed envelope. "I know my position at Wentworth has become untenable, and here's my letter of resignation, as promised."

"What?" Franky exclaims, watching their tense exchange with a growing sense of alarm. "Gidget, you don't have to do this," she objects, shaking her head as she watches the therapist effectively sign her life away, "You haven't done anything wrong."

"OK, I think that's my cue to leave," Isabel interrupts, gesturing hastily towards the door. It's obvious that she doesn't want to bear witness to the conversation that's about to unfold, and Franky knows she's leaving to protect their privacy. Vera won't be able to call on her to corroborate her allegations if Isabel excuses herself before she hears anything incriminating.

"I'll check in with you again soon, Franky, but you take care of yourself in the meantime, OK?"

"Don't sweat it, Bella, I'm made of tough stuff," Franky informs her, offering her Parole Officer a grateful, but distracted, smile. "Thanks for going to all this trouble for me. I really appreciate it."

Isabel nods her acknowledgement, and somewhere in her peripheral vision, Franky sees her leave the room, but her focus never really strays far from Bridget.

"Hey, don't look so worried. I'll find something else. And if all else fails, there's always private practice," Bridget reassures her, but Franky knows the therapist's composed demeanour has to be a front.

She studies Bridget's face for any traces of uncertainty, but it's clear that she's made up her mind, so Franky focuses her attention on Vera instead.

"Miss Bennett, you know that Bridget's a good person, and you know the only reason why you got that promotion was because she nailed Ferguson to the wall," she reminds Vera, regarding her with a pleading expression. "Bridget wanted to stop the corruption, not be a part of it, and I swear, nothing happened between us while she was treating me, OK? So please, _please,_ just tear up that letter and forget about it."

Vera looks blind-sided by Franky's impassioned outburst, but when she opens her mouth to respond, Bridget holds up a hand, beating her to it.

"Franky, listen to me, OK? I can't take you home with me and then carry on working for the establishment where you used to be incarcerated. I'd feel like a hypocrite. I'm already treading a fine line between the personal and professional and I want to walk away with my integrity still intact. You understand that, right?"

"But I never meant for this to happen. I didn't set out to turn your whole life upside down - " Franky argues, consumed by guilt, but Bridget lays a pacifying hand on her arm.

"Franky, this isn't your fault, but I've made my decision and it's non-negotiable," she tells her firmly, but then her obstinate expression gives way to an easy smile. "Besides, maybe we could both use a fresh start, yeah?"

Franky meets Bridget's searching gaze and, as terrible as she feels about being the driving force behind her resignation, the realisation that Bridget's willing to make that kind of sacrifice for her makes her heart swell and her chest hurt at the same time. She swallows around the lump in her throat, nodding, and she's almost forgotten that Vera's still standing at the foot of her bed, until the Governor clears her throat loudly, holding up a set of keys.

"Miss Westfall, I believe you asked for these?" she reminds her, looking uncomfortable, and Bridget takes them from her with a thankful smile.

"Could you give us a moment, please?" she asks, and Vera looks like she's going to argue, but then she seems to realise that she doesn't have authority over either of them anymore, and she nods her approval, reluctantly leaving the room.

Franky never thought that watching someone free her from her mortal binds would be such a turn-on, but the sensation of Bridget's fingers brushing against her wrists as she deftly works open the handcuffs, coupled with the "wait until I get you home" look the therapist throws her, leaves her heart racing. She's half-expecting her blood pressure monitor to spike erratically, especially when Bridget tosses the handcuffs carelessly onto the end of the bed, and then reaches for her hands, running her thumbs over the angry red imprints that they left behind. Franky's eyelids flutter shut when Bridget begins gently massaging her wrists, careful to avoid her sore knuckles, and the omnipresent pain seems to ease off slightly.

"So, how does it feel to be a free woman?" Bridget asks her, with a teasing lilt to her tone, and when Franky opens her eyes, she can see the difference in the other woman's demeanour almost immediately.

Bridget's never made Franky feel like her attention was unwanted, like she was chasing a lost cause, but the therapist has always been wary of telegraphing her attraction too much, and Franky's had to content herself with finding the chinks in her armour and those rare moments where Bridget couldn't temper her self-control. Now, though, they're not living in a fishbowl anymore, and judging from the look on Bridget's face, she knows it.

Franky moves to sit up, fully intending to give Bridget a non-verbal response to her question, but she's a little too eager to make up for lost time and the effort leaves her grimacing with pain.

Bridget winces in sympathy, but then her concerned expression gives way to an amused grin.

"We've got all the time in the world, Franky, so how about we wait until you're semi-mobile, yeah?"

Bridget's hands settle against her shoulders, lightly pushing her back down onto the bed, but Franky grumbles her protests.

"We've waited long enough," she complains, covering Bridget's hands with her own and tugging her a little closer.

"Yeah, well right now I can't tell where your lips end and your chin starts, so..."

Bridget settles for patting Franky's thigh instead, offering her an impish smile, and Franky groans with frustration.

Her exasperation only intensifies when Vera re-appears in her doorway. The Governor looks like she's half-expecting to find them writhing around in the bedsheets, but apparently, Franky isn't that fucking lucky.

"We'll have your things shipped to you by the end of the week, Doyle," Vera announces, and then she looks decidedly complacent as she adds, "Am I correct in assuming that you'll be staying with Miss Westfall?"

"I think you already know the answer to that question," Bridget informs her, in a tone that clearly says, _"and if you've got a problem with it, you can stick it up your ass."_

"Just give all my shit to Boomer," Franky tells her, "Except my PJs, obviously, the girls can fight it out over them. And tell Booms to add me to her visitors' list, and that I'll come and see her as soon as I'm back on my feet, OK?"

Vera doesn't look thrilled at the prospect, but she begrudgingly nods her agreement.

"Oh, and you can give my undies to Kim. Tell her she can keep them as a souvenir."

Bridget shoots her an admonishing look, but she can't withhold a snort of laughter. Vera, on the other hand, looks even less amused than she did before.

"What?" Franky asks innocently, holding up her hands. "I'm just trying to save on your postage costs, Miss Bennett."

Vera picks up the handcuffs from the end of the bed, hooking the key onto her utility belt, and then she turns to regard Franky with a contemplative expression.

"A lot of people have gone out on a limb for you Doyle - some more than others," she adds, casting a pointed look in Bridget's direction, "So don't squander this opportunity, OK?"

"Don't worry, Miss Bennett, I know when I'm on to a good thing," Franky informs her, casting a mischievous glance in Bridget's direction. Bridget rolls her eyes, but she's smiling broadly, and Franky knows it isn't the painkillers that are making her feel giddy.

"Right, well, I'll leave you to it, then."

Vera hesitates for a moment, and then turns her attention to Bridget, holding out her hand in an unexpected show of respect.

"It was a pleasure working with you, Miss Westfall."

Bridget looks a little nonplussed by Vera's apparent change of heart, but she reaches out to shake her hand regardless.

"Likewise. No hard feelings, yeah?"

Vera nods her assent, looking back and forth between them.

"I hope you're both...happy... in your future endeavours," she adds, and then she finally turns and heads for the door.

"Well, shit. Do you think she wants an invite to the wedding?" Franky asks Bridget, tongue firmly in cheek, and then they both dissolve into fits of uproarious laughter.

* * *

"OK, Miss Doyle, I can see how desperate you are for me to sign these discharge papers, but you're going to need to rest up for a while. And when I say "rest up," I mean no physical exertion whatsoever, OK?" the Doctor informs her, in a tone that suggests that there's no room for argument.

Franky shoots a pained look in Bridget's direction, and Bridget bites her lip to keep from laughing, even though she shares Franky's mounting frustration. This is a far cry from the scenario she'd been envisaging – namely, driving Franky out to the beach, watching the sun set over the water, and then ravishing her on every available surface of their hotel room.

"For the next few days, you only leave your bed to go to the bathroom, OK? And if the pain intensifies or if you notice any additional tenderness or bruising, I want you to come straight back here."

"So I get to spend my first few days of freedom staring at a ceiling?" Franky clarifies, clearly feeling bitter about it, "Yeah, I've got it, Doc, thanks."

"Would you like to use our wheelchair facilities to assist you on your way out?" The Doctor asks her amiably, but Franky regards him as if he's said something truly offensive.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

Bridget lays a hand on Franky's shoulder, shooting the Doctor an apologetic smile.

"I think what Franky means to say is, 'no, thank you.'" she says, wryly. "And don't worry, I'll keep an eye on her."

The Doctor nods, handing her a wad of prescriptions.

"You'll need to pick these up from the hospital pharmacy before you leave. I'm taking her off the morphine and switching her to codeine instead."

"That's great, thank you," Bridget tells him, and she breathes a sigh of relief when he finally leaves the room.

"Come on, let's get you out of here," she proclaims, but Franky gestures to her backless hospital gown resignedly.

"What, so I can get arrested for public indecency? All of my clothes are back at Wentworth."

"I know, that's why I came prepared," Bridget informs her with a smile, reaching for the duffel bag in the corner of the room.

Franky takes it from her gratefully, and her curiosity rapidly transforms into amusement when she sets aside a pair of sweat pants and a loose-fitting T-shirt in favour of the lacy purple underwear at the bottom of the bag.

"Saving these for my bed bath later, were you, Gidge?" she teases, holding them up with a suggestive smile, and Bridget gives an embarrassed laugh.

"Look, I just grabbed whatever was comfortable and clean, OK?" she protests, laughing when Franky continues to leer at her, "Although I'm sure they'll look better on you than they do on me."

"Yeah, I think I'd prefer you without any on at all," Franky agrees, and Bridget's cheeks start to warm when she hears the huskiness in the other woman's tone.

"Franky, you heard the Doctor. There's no point in getting yourself all worked up," she reminds the younger woman, and she has to admit, there's a certain kind of enjoyment in making Franky sweat it out, even though she wishes she didn't have to.

"Then you'd better turn around while I get dressed, Gidge, otherwise you might get a little hot-under-the-collar yourself."

Bridget graciously admits defeat and turns to face the door, because she knows her libido won't be able to handle seeing the other woman strip in front of her. Still, Franky clearly isn't finding it easy to pull on her clothes without assistance, and Bridget has to press a hand to her mouth to keep from laughing as she listens to the muffled curses that are reverberating around the room.

"Are you sure you don't want a hand?" she asks, knowing full well Franky will never willingly ask for help.

"Nah, I'm good," Franky assures her, although her grunts of pain suggests otherwise.

"Mother fucking piece of crap! For fuck's sake!" she exclaims a couple of moments later, and Bridget can't take it anymore.

She whirls around to see Franky doubled over in pain, clutching her ribs with one hand while she tries to pull up her sweat pants with the other, and Bridget's by her side in an instant.

"OK, stand up straight and put your hands on my shoulders," she tells the other woman, kneeling down in front of Franky so she can slide the sweat pants over her toned legs. Franky's breath comes in laboured gasps at first, but she seems to stop breathing completely when Bridget's hands brush against her bare skin.

"I've got to tell you, Gidge, all those times I imagined you on your knees in front of me, I never thought you'd be helping me to put my clothes _on,_ " Franky says wryly, and her grip gets a little tighter when Bridget edges the sweat pants underneath her hospital gown and over her ass, making sure there's plenty of room for Franky to breathe when she dexterously ties the drawstring waistband.

"If it's any consolation, neither did I," Bridget says with a rueful laugh, and then she stands up, patting Franky lightly on the hip.

"OK, arms up," she orders, reaching for her oversized T-shirt, and Franky grits her teeth as Bridget unties her hospital gown, gently edging it over her shoulders until it pools around her ankles.

Bridget's only human, and she can't resist casting a passing glance at Franky's generous breasts, or moistening her lips when she sees the way the other woman's nipples are reacting to her touch, but her brow furrows when she takes in the livid contusions that are littered across Franky's stomach and rib cage. They're even more prominent today than they were yesterday, and a perverse part of her can't help but hope that Boomer beat the ever-living crap out of Cindy-Lou's posse.

"Shit, Franky," she murmurs, tracing her fingers over the other woman's taut abdomen, but then she notices the intricate cherry blossom tattoo that the bruising has almost eclipsed, and her hand freezes in place. Yesterday, she was so focused on willing Franky to wake up, she didn't even realise the significance of what she was seeing, but now she's standing at a closer proximity, she notices that the tattoo isn't solely comprised of ink. Her eyes rove over the litany of cigarette burns, artfully camouflaged by the ingenious design, and the surge of protectiveness she feels is almost overwhelming.

She's surprised when Franky yanks the T-shirt out of her hand, holding it against her chest, and she looks uncharacteristically self-conscious as she tries to cover herself up.

"Can we hurry this along?" she asks impatiently, and Bridget wonders what's provoked the abrupt change in her mood.

"Come on Franky, don't try and tell me that you've got a problem being naked in front of me?" she teases, hoping to lighten the atmosphere, but Franky doesn't crack a smile.

"I just hate you looking at me like that, OK?" she eventually snaps, and Bridget regards her in confusion.

"Like what?"

"Like you feel fucking sorry for me! It's a real boner killer."

She tries to move away, but Bridget gently grasps her elbow, holding her in place.

"So someone I care about gets hurt and I'm supposed to act like it doesn't bother me? Like seeing those bruises doesn't make me feel sick to the stomach?" Bridget asks her in disbelief. "You need to stop confusing concern with pity, Franky, because they aren't the same thing. Not by a long shot."

"Yeah, but you weren't looking at the bruises, were you? You were looking at this," Franky retorts, lifting up the T-shirt and jabbing a finger in the general vicinity of her scars.

Bridget can't deny the accusation, but she isn't going to let Franky misinterpret her intentions.

"Did you design it yourself?" she asks her softly, and Franky attempts a nonchalant shrug.

"Yeah, I inked it myself, too, but I don't need you to give me some shrink speech about what it all means, OK?"

"Finding beauty in the scars of your past, not letting old wounds shape your future, reminding yourself that pain is fleeting. Does that about cover it?" Bridget asks her, and Franky looks surprised by her insight.

Bridget gently prises the T-shirt out of Franky's grasp, and then she reaches out, stroking her fingertips over the length of the tattoo, hating that she can play a macabre game of dot-to-dot with the scars that Franky's mother so brutally left behind. She can feel Franky's stomach muscles contracting in the wake of her touch, and she regards the other woman attentively.

"I think it's beautiful," she tells her honestly, and she hears Franky swallow audibly. It takes a moment for the inmate to be able to meet her eyes, but when she does, Bridget's shocked by the vulnerability she sees there, even though a part of her feels privileged to witness it.

"You need to stop touching me like that or I'm gonna forget that I'm supposed to be incapacitated," Franky eventually jokes, and she reaches out to grip Bridget's waist for support.

Bridget hesitates for a second, but then she captures Franky's battered face in her hands, brushing the other woman's bruised lips with a feather-light kiss, as though she can somehow chase the pain away with her tenderness. The contact only lasts for a second, but it still makes her go weak at the knees, and when she opens her eyes, she sees Franky's surprised expression quickly morph into desire.

Franky's eyes darken as she cups the back of Bridget's head and draws her closer, and when the younger woman's lips meld to her own for a second time, Bridget doesn't hesitate to intensify the contact. She can't afford to be as assertive as she wants to be, but it doesn't stop her from giving Franky a taste of what's to come, and she pours months of repressed longing into their heated kiss, sighing into Franky's mouth when the younger woman passionately reclaims her lips every time they retreat. She's been craving this for as long as she can remember, and it's even better than she'd hoped, in spite of the circumstances.

Fifteen minutes ago, she didn't think there would be anything romantic about kissing someone with a busted lip and the coppery stench of blood on their breath, but now she's dangerously close to forgetting all about Franky's injuries, because Franky isn't kissing her like someone who's encumbered by pain, she's kissing her like she's the fucking village healer.

Bridget runs her fingernails lightly over the length of Franky's spine, and Franky instinctively bucks against her, and the feel of the inmate's bare breasts pressing against her own is what finally brings Bridget to her senses, because she knows if she lets this go any further, she won't be able to stop.

"Franky, that's enough," she murmurs when they finally pull apart for air, and she only realises that the other woman's staggered breathing isn't just the product of pleasure when Franky sways a little, still leaning against Bridget for support.

"You started it," Franky points out petulantly, pressing a kiss against Bridget's collarbone, but then her face contorts with pain and she blindly reaches for the bed.

"Shit," Bridget cusses, helping the younger woman to sit down, "Are you OK?"

"Well, put it this way, if I'm fucking dying, then this is definitely the way I want to go," Franky proclaims, and she looks like she's on top of the world, in spite of her obvious discomfort.

"I think I'd rather keep you around for a while, so how about you take it easy, yeah?"

"So you aren't going to finish what you started?" Franky asks, doing her best imitation of a seductive smirk, which is somewhat impeded by her swollen cheeks and bruised eyes, and yet no less effective.

Still, as tempting as the offer may be, Bridget can't take her up on it. She opens her mouth to object, but then Franky wheezes out a laugh.

"Relax, Gidget, that's not what I meant. You were helping me to get dressed, remember? And I'm still half-naked here, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Oh, I've noticed," Bridget retorts drolly, but she gamely reaches for the discarded T-shirt, easing it over Franky's head.

She tries to keep her eyes focussed firmly on Franky's face as she helps her manoeuvre her arms into the baggy sleeves, but the hunger in the inmate's eyes is a distraction in and of itself.

"Gidget?" Franky asks her innocently, compelling Bridget's attention as she eases the fabric over Franky's stomach. "I could use a fresh set of undies, too. These ones are pretty...wet."

Bridget groans, burying her head in her hands.

"I think it would be safer for both of us if they kept you in hospital for a few more days."

"Oh come on, you wouldn't do that to me, would ya? I thought you had this self-restraint thing down to a fine art?"

"OK," Bridget says wryly, "But you're sleeping in the guest bedroom."

Franky sticks out her tongue, which does nothing to combat Bridget's arousal, but she forces herself to snap out of it, folding up Franky's discarded hospital gown just so she has something to do with her hands.

"Jesus, do you want to make the bed while you're at it?" Franky asks her impatiently, "I thought we were getting the hell out of here?"

Franky struggles her way off the bed, and Bridget regards her anxiously.

"Are you sure you don't want that wheelchair?" she asks, and she's only half joking.

Franky shakes her head, pulling a face, but Bridget watches her walk a few agonising steps at a time and she can't take it anymore.

"C'mere, lean on me," she offers, and Franky grips her shoulder, using her as a makeshift crutch as they make their way towards the door. Bridget loops a steadying arm around her back, taking the majority of Franky's weight as they move slowly towards the lift, and when they finally reach the hospital pharmacy, she's a little out of breath herself.

"Stay here while I get your scripts, OK?"

Franky nods her acknowledgement, and when Bridget returns ten minutes later, she sees the inmate looking out of the window, gazing longingly at the hospital's gardens and watching the hubbub of people rushing by with a sense of new-found wonderment. Franky still seems like she's on the outside looking in, trying to touch something that's just out of her reach, and it breaks Bridget's heart to know that she's going to have to spend the next few days cooped up inside her house. Still, it beats prison by a long shot, and she's going to make damn sure that Franky feels the difference.

"Come on, let's get you home," she says softly, and Franky turns to look at her like she's never had one before; like she's still the lost little foster kid wondering why everyone who was supposed to love her never did.

Bridget instinctively moves towards her, and Franky wraps an arm around her waist, taking a deep breath as she turns towards the exit. She walks laboriously towards her freedom, and Bridget holds her close, smiling into Franky's hair when the younger woman nestles against her side, resting her cheek against Bridget's shoulder. When they finally exit the imposing building and walk onto the hospital's forecourt, Franky lets out a triumphant whoop that deafens half the people in their vicinity, and Bridget jumps a mile, prompting the younger woman to burst out laughing. Thankfully, Bridget's never been the type to give a damn what people think, which is probably just as well, because they barely make it to the car park before Franky's hand gravitates from her waist to her ass.


End file.
